A Shot Above
by CarlisleConway
Summary: NOT EVERY ACE IS A PILOT. The Belkan War's unexpected intertwining with the Usean Continental War. A sergeant struggles with his past, a private looks to save his nation, a foreigner looks for a reason to fight and a pilot needs to pick a side.
1. Chapter 1: Invasion

A SHOT ABOVE

An _Ace Combat 04: Shattered Skies_ story

Soundtrack: "Stonehenge Attacks", _Ace Combat 04: Shattered Skies_. Extended version on YouTube by Zaptroxix.

 **Istas Fortress, Southern Usea, ISAF's GHQ**

 **August, 2003**

"Someone turn off that damn radio, I think I hear something!" called a certain ISAF sergeant. Almost immediately, one of the privates shut off the radio. "Now everyone, shut up!" called the sergeant. The barracks became completely silent as the soldiers looked up to the sky hearing a faint roar.

And then it got closer. It was a sound like no other. It pierced the sky like an arrow, ripping its way through the atmosphere. It was almost an explosion, but not loud enough to be one. Closer and closer it came, until it struck. There was a massive explosion near the barracks, and the room was filled with ash and smoke.

Most of the soldiers passed out, many asphyxiating on the gas.

"Come on, private! I'm not leaving you here!" called a mysterious voice. I was half-conscious, and could barely tell who it was. The voice then picked me up, hauling me out of the barracks. My eyes were watering due to the smoke, and I could barely see my surroundings of the barracks outside. I then passed out again.

"Yeah...His name's Altman. He's my new private. He was fine a minute ago, then he passed out again."

"We'll see what we can do. CAN I GET A PA OVER HERE!"

"Vitals are down. Looks like we'll have to use our...wait...he's waking up!"

I was laying down on a stretcher as medics glanced over me. One of them had a pair of defibrillators, and was about to press on my chest. I waved my hand vaguely to show I was fine. The medics then immediately left without warning to tend to different wounded soldiers.

"Altman! You okay?" called Sergeant Tillings. He was the mysterious voice. He saved my life.

"I'm fine, sir. What's happening?"

"That's sergeant to you! I don't know, it's some sort of air attack, but I don't see any enemy planes. We gotta get to the armory, something's happening. We're at war!"

And then we left.

 **Istas Fortress Control Tower #3**

"What the hell was that?" called one of the officers in the tower.

"I've got no idea. Towers one and two have been hit. I figure we're next." called the superior officer in the room, a first lieutenant.

"Well then, we have to get out of here!" called the first officer, already getting up from his seat.

"Stand your ground, we may have to evacuate, but we gotta do something in retaliation. Should we scramble fighters? We don't have orders…"

Just then a major stepped into the tower, ash on his face. He interrupted the lieutenant. "Yes, scramble fighters. That's an order. The Erusians just launched a surprise attack against this fortress. I think they're using the superweapon they stole from the FCU…"

"Sir, I've got a massive flight of bombers, fighters and transports coming right for us!" called out one of the radar operators.

"How many?" called the major.

"At least 200."

"Damn. You better scramble those fighters right now." ordered the major.

The radio operators then frantically relayed the command to all airfields in the area, scrambling ISAF's forward defence fighters.

And then the roar came back.

 **Istas Fortress**

We had moved toward the armoy, running at a sprint with all our strength. I glanced at Tillings, who had an open mouth. He and I were still trying to comprehend what on Earth was going on.

We had passed one of the control towers when the roar came back. I stopped running and glanced at the sky. A contrail moved at supersonic speed directly at me. I stood gazing up at it emotionless, mouth agape. The projectile had just about hit when Tillings grabbed and tackled me to the ground. I caught one final glimpse at the projectile as it exploded a couple feet above the control tower. The explosion pierced my ears as the pressure of the blast looked like it _crushed_ the tower. If any one was in the building, they were dead now.

As for me, I heard nothing after the explosion. There was a bright, red residue in the air that I couldn't identify. Shrapnel had launched outward from the crushed building, but thankfully, Tillings had thrown me behind a small ridge that protected us from anything deadly.

We both lay there unmoving. The ringing in my ears seemed to never stop ceasing. I wanted to just pass out, but something wanted me to keep moving. That thing was Sergeant Tillings, who picked me up as we resumed our previous pace of an all out sprint.

After about two minutes running, we had finally reached the armory. Around it were several hundred other ISAF soldiers, each with the same perplexed look that Tillings and I had. No one knew what was going on, and no officers were present to give orders.

That was until Master Sergeant Owens stood up on a pile of rubble, presiding over the masses like a hawk. He was the man I called "drill instructor" for the past month. He was relentless, but taught us well. Yet no teaching could have prepared us for this.

"Alright, you lot!" he screamed in a northern accent along with his thick, gravelly voice. He had grown up around North Point, giving his voice extra emphasis on vowels. He continued, "We've got a flight of several bombers and transports incoming, obviously carrying paratroopers. Their strike took out most of the armory, so we're limited on resources. Every other man gets a rifle, the next one in line gets ammunition. When the first one dies, the second one picks up the rifle! We are not giving up the Fortress to Erusea today! All anti aircraft specialists get a Stinger! We will not lose!"

At that time, most soldiers let out a mighty "hoo-ah" and went inside the armory. Sergeant Tillings glanced at me, asking, "Aren't you an AA specialist?"

I had no idea what to say. "I - uhh… - I got training, but…"

"Can you operate a Stinger?"

"Yes, sergeant."

"Than you're an AA Specialist!" he ordered. I had received brief training from one of the actual AA specialists, who told me operating an air to air missile was a piece of cake. From how he described it, it really did seem like it was.

The line had moved along, with the horde of soldiers passing through what remained of the armory. A technical sergeant was handing out firearms.

"You get ammunition! Pick up a gun if you find one!" he called.

"Uhh-Sergeant, I'm an AA specialist."

"Take the ammunition anyways! But thank God you're a specialist. I thought they were all in Barracks 14? Y'know, the one that's now a pile of smithereens?" He had reached behind his shoulder, grabbing one of the massive missile launchers. I chose not to answer his question, remaining silent. As he bestowed the weapon upon me, my arms sank with the weight of the launcher. Hopefully I wouldn't have to sprint with this hunk of metal.

"Eh, well who cares. Here's you're Stinger to go! Enjoy your meal!"

The tech sarge handed Tillings an M4, which eased into his grip as if he held it every day of his life. After we attempted leave the armory, Master Sergeant Owens bellowed above the crowd, "Tillings! Where's your platoon?"

"He's right here! This rest choked to death in the first attack."

Owens frowned, contemplating a solution. "Fine. Your 'platoon' will protect hangar five! Now move!"

Tillings moved me along, placing his hand on my back. "Aight," he began, "follow me. I know right the hangar is. It's more of a pit, but…"

The faint roar returned, once more sending the ear-rupturing sound across the jungle of Istas Fortress.

My arms felt like jello as I lugged the Stinger to our destined location, about two miles away. It was quite the run, as most of Istas was rugged terrain. Many called it a "natural fortress", hence the strange attacks had continued, but as Tillings and I weren't near any important buildings, we were safe as we finally arrived at hangar five. Tillings wasn't kidding when he called the hangar a pit, as it was literally a massive hole in the ground maybe 100 feet deep. At the bottom were a couple harriers, one of which was hovering out of the hole to intercept the incoming bombers.

"How on Earth do they make those fly vertically?" I asked rhetorically.

Tillings answered, "What do I look like, a rocket scientist?" He was a simple man of military tradition. His father and his father and his father had all fought in some Usean war, or one of the World Wars. His dry humor always produced short answers to my endless questions, ending my curiosity. I think he said he was from San Salvacion, thus the slightly high pitched voice.

Now he looked at me like I had done something wrong.

"Sarge, what's the problem?" I muttered.

"Aren't you going to-y'know-set it up?" he half-ordered.

I came to my senses and realized that I had been standing there with the Stinger without doing or saying anything. "Oh! Yes, sergeant." I shouldered the launcher, looking for some of safety mechanisms. Aha, there were two buttons labeled "safety", each numbered one and two. I flipped the one switch and nothing happened. I flipped the two switch, and a repetitive beeping noise came from the mechanism. It was on and was locking. Since there were no targets, the beeping continued without ever getting to a monotone humm, which is what the AA Specialist told me meant that the missile had truly locked on.

"Are you sure you're supposed to do that?" asked Tillings.

"Yes, I'm 100% sure," I said.

Tillings shrugged, knowing nothing of rocket launcher anatomy.

There was an odd silence of nothing. No gunshots, no screams, no roar of jet engines or of those odd explosions. The Harriers in the hangar had all left, and were gliding in the sky getting into formation. Istas Fortress was home to around 80 fighters, which was a formidable amount. The Erusian formation only consisted of bombers and transports, easy targets for that amount of fighters.

 **Istas Fortress airspace, 20,000 feet above ground level**

"Enemy formation about ten kilometers out, and closing," informed squadron leader Faulkner, callsign Omega Nine. He was an ISAF pilot who was from the Twinkle Islands, an archipelago just south of Erusea, the nation he was now defending against. The islands were formally independent of any Usean nations, until Erusea formally annexed it. Thankfully, Faulkner's family owned a decently sized boat, able to travel to the mainland in a day or two. On the way there, Faulkner wove the ship right past the Erusian fleet. They must've been doing something big there, they had already started construction on something.

But now he was on the continent, flying in a Typhoon in the "shattered skies" of Usea. As squadron leader, he was privileged to choose from a wide variety of aircraft, and the Typhoon was definitely the best, even compared to that new F-22. It was unmatched in maneuverability, but didn't have the fancy beep-boop stealth stuff of those new fighters.

His flight had organized around him, which consisted of 20 fighters, all Harriers. Compared to the Typhoon, Harriers were fledgelings of aircraft. But, since the targets had no escort, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. His flight, Omega flight, had already formed up in the air above Istas, while Victor flight had formed up a good kilometer away. Two other flights consisted of another flank, ready to form a pincer movement on the flight of bombers and transports.

"This is AWACS Albatross, all squadrons, you have permission to engage the enemy aircraft," called the local AWACS unit. Faulkner recognized the voice, a reminder of a past friend. Albatross had lived on the Twinkle Islands with Faulkner and even was part of the same scout troop that he was in way back in his teenage years. They weren't especially close, but the fact that they were together now in a war showed how changed the world was. Two friends were now ready to fight and possibly die for a cause, thought Faulkner.

The two massive formations of ISAF fighters now began the pincer movement on the enemy formation. It was then that Faulkner noticed something new: the quiet. The bombardment had stopped. Apparently the superweapon had been silenced, or had ceased firing. Faulkner shrugged it off as a mere coincidence, and continued his course to the enemy formation of C-130s and TU-95s. They were old aircraft, for sure, but effective when undisturbed. Unfortunately for the enemy pilots, they wouldn't be.

Faulkner pulled the throttle lever forwards, slightly separating his plane from the rest of his flight. He had dibs on the first kills, as this would be the first real battle he had been in since the Coup that happened a couple years ago. He yearned for action. For the exhilarating feeling of a dogfight. For air combat.

He pushed his thoughts aside as he heard a faint noise come over the horizon. Damn. The booming came back, louder than ever. It appeared as though there were 12 projectiles, much more than the single bombardments that occurred earlier.

And they were heading right toward his flight. His flight members, all new to air combat, assumed that the shells were heading straight to the ground, but Faulkner thought the better of it. He remembered the superweapon was created for shooting down asteroid fragments, so he figured it could shoot down aircraft in the same manner.

"All aircraft, break formation now!" he shouted as he dove from his previous location. Unfortunately for his flight, it was too late. The supersonic shells exploded in and around both formations, combining to form a massive single explosion that imploded any doomed aircraft within.

The blast blinded Faulkner's eyes, as he half-passed out from the shock. It was then that his g-suit compressed, pushing blood to his head and regaining his consciousness,

An electronic voice in Faulkner's aircraft called out, "STALL. STALL. STALL."

Faulkner finally composed himself enough to realize that his plane was in a rotation stall, spinning and falling from the sky. He knew there was no recovery from the position. He fumbled around the cockpit, trying to grab the yellow lever at his feet. He finally found it and pulled.

 **Istas Fortress, Hangar Five**

"Holy crap!" I shouted as a massive explosion appeared in the place our fighters once were. They were the same explosions that appeared on the ground mere moments earlier. Now, their power had created a massive circle of light in the sky almost as bright as the sun.

"Guess we won't have air support," mused Tillings. It appeared he was taking this very lightly. I felt like this wasn't the first time he had seen this power.

"So...we're on our own?" I asked.

"Yes, but of course, we do have some troops to the rear of us. But let's pray we don't have to retreat…"

I was seriously doubting that we could take on all the soldiers alone.

We waited silently for about two minutes, doing nothing but accepting the fate that we would be in war in a few seconds.

The flight soared above us, creating a scene of a sky filled with ominous black spots. The storm was coming. Yet this scene of black slowly turned into white as parachutes clouded our field of view. Even the bombers were dropping airborne units as men jumped out of the bomb bays.

I shouldered the rocket launcher and aimed at one of the transports. The beeping began as the missile locked onto the enemy aircraft. The launcher emitted a low _hum_ , indicating that it had looked on. Seeing as though this really was a piece of cake, I pulled the trigger.

The missile zoomed out of the launcher toward the transport, travelling at a fast speed. Sadly, it was much slower than what I thought it would be. The rocket was obviously out of range of the transport. Heck, the transport didn't even deploy flares. The missile ran out of fuel miles before hitting the transport.

Captain Obvious, my sergeant, said, "I think it's out of range. Shouldn't you know this stuff?"

"Sergeant, I told you I had a little training, not a lot. I know how to press a trigger, that's it."

Tillings chuckled. I guess he figured as much. "Well then, there's no point in us standing here in the open." He took my Stinger and threw it to the ground. That thing was probably valuable, but Tillings didn't care. It was useless with me, that's for sure.

Tillings led me across the plateau that the "hangar" was dug into. We passed a watchtower, which had two ISAF soldiers in it, each looking at the falling paratroopers with binoculars. One of them looked at me and tapped the shoulder of the other guard. He then pointed at me and said something softly to his counterpart.

"Nice shooting, hotshot!" called out the one who saw me first.

I wanted to say some wicked cool comeback, but my mind drew a blank. I stuttered and thankfully Tillings interrupted.

"We'll see about that! In two minutes, you two are going to be dead!"

The second guard chuckled and slapped the back of the other soldier.

"Aww… the little privates are threatening us! Don't worry, those damn Erusians won't attack, they wouldn't attack an empty hangar." It became clear that the men in the tower were observation officers, men designated to relaying commands to HQ and throughout the battlefield. It appeared they were taking the situation very lightly.

Tillings waved his hand in the air and turned around, beginning the jog again. Once we got out of earshot range of the sentries, he muttered, "officers…"

This time, the run was much easier. Sure, it was uphill, but at least I didn't have a 30 pound rocket launcher to carry. We were travelling to the peak of the plateau, which was a very rocky area. Tillings was smart, this area was filled with multiple rocks for cover. We stopped at a flat area of rock that overlooked the entire plateau, including the hangar and the watchtower. He drew the M4 and lied on the ground, attaching a bipod to the rifle. He then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a telescopic scope, of which I had never seen before.

"Woah, sergeant. Where'd you get that?" I said.

"I had it before the war. It's a family heirloom, I suppose," he said. He attached the scope to the rifle, placing it though he had done it a thousand times. Perhaps he had. He changed the subject, "Master Sergeant Owens wants us to charge at the Erusians like a mass of mad Yuktobanians, but I have a better idea. Since we're so limited on ammo, we're going to snipe these idiots. Single shots. I know you don't have a gun, but you can spot for me. Just tell me where the enemies are and at what distance. Take these."

He handed me a pair of binoculars that were inside a worn-out leather case. Perhaps another "heirloom". I pulled them out and drew them to my eyes. Holy cow, these were high tech. Whenever you looked at something, a number appeared at the top of the screen, the distance. This was definitely not standard issue.

"Sarge, are these a family heirloo-"

"Here they come, start spotting or start dying. Pick your choice."

I shut my mouth and crouched behind a rock that was near Tillings. I drew the binoculars and gazed at the sky. There were about twenty parachutes heading straight for our plateau. I recognized their pattern as the group of paratroopers that jumped out of the transport I missed. Whoops…

Tillings stood still as a stone, gazing through his scope at the plateau. I noticed that he wasn't aiming at the air.

"20 targets, 400 meters. 200 meters above the ground and descending," I informed. Tillings adjusted his scope and continued aiming at the plateau. "Uh, sarge? Are you going to shoot them? I asked.

Tillings didn't move, but muttered, "What do I look like, a skeet shooter? No way on Strangereal am I hitting those targets. Heck, the best sniper in the world couldn't do that. Only an idiot would shoot paratroopers at that speed."

At that time, a couple of idiots in the watchtower started shooting at the paratroopers. Every shot missed as the officers forgot to factor the effect of gravity, wind and drag. It was evident that whenever Tillings shot, he would. I noticed one of the paratroopers in the air shoulder his rifle, holding something below the barrel. Now who would shoot from above…

He shot from above, firing an underbarrel grenade launcher at the watchtower. The structure exploded in a blaze of glory and started collapsing. The noise was quite loud, spiking my senses. Just before it crashed to the ground, one of the officers jumped out, landing on the ground after a 20 foot fall. He could still live, though his legs were probably broken. And then I noticed that he was on fire. He glared right at my position and I stared into his face with the binoculars, his eyes wide at me. He howled in pain as he suffered a slow, fiery death. This was the same man who called me hotshot a couple minutes ago. Geez.

I looked away. I can't take it. I almost wanted to vomit, until Tillings knocked me into my senses.

"Spot targets, if you please!"

I put on the binoculars and looked at the enemy force about to land. I eyed the soldier who had killed the observation officers as he was about to touch ground. "One soldier, 400 meters, right by the collapsed tower," I said.

Tillings swivelled the rifle towards the designated area and took in a deep breath. He shut his left eye and peeked into the scope like an eagle about to swoop in on his prey.

The soldier landed right next to the charred corpse of the observation officer. He then simply shot whatever remained of the officer to take him out of his misery, as Tillings held his fire. As soon as the soldier was finished, Tillings pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, piercing my ears more than the bombardment from earlier. Man, I was not prepared for that. I covered my ears and dropped the binoculars.

"Keep spotting!" ordered Tillings. I picked up the binoculars and gazed at the battle scene. Thank God, the soldier that killed the officers was dead. There was a well-placed hole in his head made by Tillings.

I gazed at another fallen soldier who was just detaching his parachute. "One soldier, 347 meters, close to the pit." Tillings moved the gun effortlessly and shot the man in the chest. He fired again to make sure. A group of soldiers had landed near the corpse of the first soldier and were arming themselves. "Seven soldiers, 405 meters out, near the burning tower," I reported.

Tillings rotated the M4 back to the previous position and shot one of the men that had landed. The shot was off, it hit the man in the arm. He fell over as his comrades scrambled for cover. I could hear his scream all the way from our position as Tillings muttered a curse under his breath. He took aim again and shot a paratrooper who was just about to take cover behind the burning tower. This time, the bullet struck home as the soldier died.

The rest of the soldiers had successfully taken cover, all five of them cowered behind their makeshift defense. One of them raised his rifle over the barricade and blind fired in our direction.

He was as green as me, none of his shots got even close to us. He fired off every round in his clip and finally stopped shooting, lowering his arm behind cover. Tillings scoped in on his position and held the rifle perfectly still.

The private then raised his rifle again, revealing his hand, to which Tillings shot. There was another howl of pain as the paratrooper had lost his hand. The rifle fell to the ground and the fire ceased. One of the soldiers finally had the brains to deploy smoke as he threw a smoke grenade over the makeshift barricade right in our line of fire.

Tillings immediately picked up the rifle and said to me, "smoke may be good to cover your own position, but it prevents you from seeing the enemy. Let's relocate." He then glided across the rocks into another location, this one behind a massive boulder providing cover. He crouched and set up the rifle as I walked beside him. I raised the binoculars and gazed at the enemy position. Another group of paratroopers were landing all noticing the firefight below and preparing their weapons mid-flight.

"Six paratroopers, landing 20 meters Northwest of the tower."

Tillings didn't move, but instead focussed on the men behind the tower. This new location provided an even better line of sight, as we could easily see every man behind the tower, including the one who was attaching a bandage around his stump hand. Tillings took a deep breath and prepared to fire. He then let loose bursts of six bullets, each hitting a target save for one. The position was cleared.

The new paratroopers had all gone to the prone position instead of moving behind the once-effective defense that was the tower. It was then that a shot ricocheted off of the rock that protected us, the enemy was firing back. I looked at the hostile enemy and spotted, "One target, 23 meters northwest of the tower, prone."

Tillings swiveled the rifle around and immediately opening fire. The shot was too hastily taken, the bullet hit the ground a few meters from the assailant. A few other shots rang out around us as more enemies engaged us. Tillings closed both his eyes and took another deep breath. This time, he bided his time as he scoped in the man who was attempting to kill us.

The shot rang out as the bullet pierced the helmet of shooter. He was dead.

"One target, six meters west of the last one." Tillings honed in on the next target and shot him dead, also in the head. The next couple of targets, all also prone, were pie for Tillings. He had definitely done this before. I had some questions for him, but now, we were in the middle of the beginning of a continental war.

Several other groups landed on the plateau, all much smaller than the previous ones. Due to the flat terrain, all were killed by the relentless hand of Tillings. It appeared he felt no emotion as he took the life of many other human beings. I don't know how he did it.

Finally, it was over. There was a mass of corpses 400 meters from our position. Twenty one men were killed by Tillings. Once the engagement was over, he lifted the rifle and simply said, "Well that ends that."

I stood in awe of him. There was no way that he was just a sergeant! He just protected an entire position single-handedly! All I did was tell him where the enemy was! He just killed twenty men! My face was expressing all these thoughts with an odd look on my face as I raised my eyebrow.

"What's the matter with you?" said Tillings.

"Uhh...Nothing Sergeant. You're just so...so…"

"Devilishly handsome? Well sorry, Altman, but what part of 'don't ask, don't te-"

"Deadly!" I said.

Tillings looked at the ground and contemplated the answer. "Battle just does that to people. That's what my father said."

Aha! That was it! I prodded further as we walked down the plateau toward the dead paratroopers.

"So your father fought? In what war?"

"Grab a rifle from one of those soldiers, you're going to use it." He was changing the subject.

"Was he a sniper like you?"

"Grab a damn rifle," he ordered. Sheesh, someone's got parent problems. I then looked at one of the corpses. It was the man who killed the officers, who was using a G3 rifle with a grenade launcher that had obliterated the tower. Although I didn't want to touch the deadly weapon that had killed two men I had talked to mere minutes ago, I grabbed it. The grenades would be useful later. I grabbed a couple clips of ammunition and started running with Tillings.

"So where are we headed to now, sergeant?" I asked.

"Well, by this time, the Erusians have probably overran the armory and Scion airbase, since they're probably prime targets. So we're going to rendezvous with the rest of the main force, who are probably rallied behind the armory. We'll try to repel the remaining Erusian forces."

So Tillings and I began running back down the path toward the armory, moving at a faster pace due to the downhill slope. The plateau we were on was quite high up, and we could see all around Istas. It seemed as though the whole world was on fire; every major structure had taken a hit from whatever that superweapon was. Pillars of smoke rose into the skies, meeting the contrails of the enemy aircraft like a swirling waltz between black and white lines.

Tillings stopped running and moved his arm to the side to stop me. "Wait," he said. He grabbed the binoculars I had slung around my right shoulder and pressed them to his eyes. He then scanned the horizon and gazed off the path toward a grove of trees. Upon closer investigation, I could see a parachute caught in a tree. Instead of the circular designs that the Erusian paratroopers used, this one was more of a rectangle. In fact, it wasn't even white, it was a light green.

"That's one of ours," he said as he put the binoculars back in the pouch. He shouldered his rifle and started running again. Geez, this was tiring. My whole body groaned in complaint at running again, but I was actually curious at what was going on. We slashed through the trees, running straight through the brush. We were passing several tree trunks and were heading straight to the parachute.

 _Click_. There was a sound of a pistol cocking behind me. I stopped dead in my tracks, as well as Tillings. Neither of us turned around.

"Who are you?" called a hoarse, wounded voice behind me.

"I'm Sergeant Tillings of the Independent State Allied Force, and this is Private Altman, also of ISAF."

"Thank God…" said the wounded man behind me. I heard the sound of a man collapsing and turned around. I saw an ISAF pilot lying on the ground below us, the look of a thousand yard stare from his eyes. I picked him up and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. I was about to ask some questions when Tillings beat me to it.

"Who are you?"

"Captain Tyler Faulkner, Independent State Allied Air Forces. I was the squadron leader of Tactical Fighter Squadron 228, I led Omega flight…"

"That's enough. You can rest now. Altman, carry the Captain. We need to get him out of here."

And then we started running again, this time much slower due to the new weight. I was losing my breath quite fast, as we ran for miles. As we neared the armory, we stopped at a ridge about half a mile out, gaping at the battle. We could see the main battle, the clash of hundreds of Erusian paratroopers and the main ISAF defense force. It was an open terrain battle about 200 meters behind the armory, all rocky terrain. It appeared as though the sides had reached a stalemate, each side cowering behind a field of rocks to create their line of defense.

The peace was halted when I heard a massive voice bellowing over the scene. "FIX BAYONETS!" it said. Even from the extreme distance, I could tell that it was the booming voice of Master Sergeant Owens. He was rallying the remaining troops for one last stand against the Erusians.

"He's leading a suicide charge," commented Tillings. "Let's move, this will be the perfect cover." Tillings then lightly tapped the shoulder of Faulkner, trying to get him to consciousness. He came to, looking at my sergeant. "Captain, can you fly a helicopter?" asked Tillings.

"Are Erusians cocky?" mused Faulkner.

"Good, you have a sense of humor. You'll be fine, you probably just broke your leg in the fall," reported Tillings.

We gazed at the battle in front of us, Owens taking a prominent point among the ISAF line. He rallied, "Men, today is the day that the Erusians chose to attack us. They thought that today we would be weak! They thought today we would surrender! LET'S PROVE THEM WRONG! CHARGE!"

There was a massive roar of assent as a hundred ISAF soldiers leaped over the rock wall, charging at the enemy like a mad bull.

"Now's our chance, let's move!" ordered Tillings. We then moved into a full sprint, heading straight into the giant furball of combat. The Erusians were caught with their pants down and their pants soiled as a group of rambunctious, young, and loud ISAF soldiers charged at their position with the intent of killing every last one. As we weaved through the emerging soldiers, Tillings put a few rounds on Erusian positions, effectively suppressing them and protecting Faulkner and I.

As the ISAF forces neared the Erusians, the long-range engagement turned into all-out hand-to-hand fighting, as men were using bayonets, the butts of their rifles, and even their fists to deter enemy forces. We moved through the thick of it, running straight past many dead men of many different nationalities. The battle turns into a blur as I struggle to move as fast as I can. I heave oxygen in as my breath gets hoarse. My body tells me to take a break, but my will says otherwise.

And then the butt of a rifle hits my face. I collapse onto the ground, falling next to the corpse of an ISAF soldier.

It's Master Sergeant Owens, with a bullet hole in his forehead. He must've died as soon as the hand-to-hand fighting began. I finally turn my head around to view my assailant, a young Erusian officer. He looks inexperienced, as though he had never seen battle before. He was about my age.

Of course, he was also strangling Sergeant Tillings in a choke hold. I drew and shouldered my G3, aiming behind my sergeant. I precisely moved the sight onto the head of the young officer and fingered the trigger.

And then I pulled it.

The officer fell to the ground as Tillings immediately gave a quick nod to say thanks, then moved to help me with Faulkner, who was on the ground since the first fall. I lifted Faulkner to my shoulder again, wrapping his arm around mine.

"C'mon, let's get outta here!" ordered Tillings as we started the grueling pace once more. We ran as fast as we could through the massive battle as many bullets whizzed past us like hornets with a deadly sting. As we weaved through the battlefield, it became evident that the courage that the ISAF soldiers had at the beginning of the battle was not enough to deter the Erusian forces. Instead of engaging the ISAF men in hand-to-hand, which is what Owens opted for, the Erusians were moving a distance away and picking off the men at a distance. It was pure cowardice, but at least they didn't shoot the wounded like Faulkner.

We finally managed to get out of the battle unscathed, save for a bruise on my forehead from the rifle butt. We began the downward pace once again as we moved down the armory's plateau towards the helicopter base. Gun shots could still be heard even far away from the battle, but it appeared as though the final act of Owens bought us precious time. I finally saw the helicopter base ahead of us.

As we entered the facility through the barbed wire gate, one of the guards stood up from his position at the gatehouse.

"What are you doing here? This area is off limits to standard infantry," he said.

"The hell it isn't! We've got a downed pilot here who needs medical attention," argued Tillings.

The guard must've assumed that we were cowards trying to escape battle, since he said, "I'm sure he is. Last time I checked, all pilots were shot down thanks to whatever those explosions were," he taunted.

Faulkner came to consciousness without me knowing, and said, "It was Stonehenge."

All three of us gazed at Faulkner in a look of awe. No way was that possible. Stonehenge was built to shoot down asteroids, not aircraft.

"I used to be in Erusea's air force. I have information about Stonehenge that needs to get back to ISAF HQ," said Faulkner.

The guard stood in awe, finally forced to an answer, "Well then, I suppose you can pass. But not these men. They need to stay at the base."

"They're with me," said Faulkner.

"I'm not so sure about tha-" said the guard

"The proper response is 'yes sir', sergeant. I am a captain after all."

"Yes sir," muttered the guard as he opened the gate.

We then waltzed right into the base unopposed; the guard must've informed the rest of the base of our presence. Inside the base was an antenna, a couple fuel tanks, and of course, several helicopter pads. Thankfully, one of them had a CH-47 Chinook on it, which was guarded by a couple of privates and an officer. We approached them as Faulkner spoke up.

"Do you have a pilot here?" he asked.

The officer of the guard, a lieutenant, stepped forward to meet us, saying, "No sir. We presume you are one?"

"Yes I am, and I intend to leave this God-forsaken place."

"But what about the remaining ISAF forces? Perhaps some of them need evac?"

This time, Tillings piped up, "Sir, there are no remaining ISAF forces in the area, they were all just killed in a mass attack we witnessed. Captain Faulkner here needs to leave because he has crucial information about the superweapon the Erusians are using."

Faulkner nodded in assent and continued, "That's right. I believe that you men here are the only remaining forces in this section of Istas, so you all are welcome to join us. I'm a bit wounded, but I'm sure I can operate a helicopter just fine."

The officer gazed at the chinook and then around his base.

"We could pull it off," he said with a grin.

Just then, the officer's radio activated as a muffled voice came through, the voice of the gatehouse guard, and said, "Sir, Erusian forces are making their way down the hill. They're coming right for us!"

The officer squeezed the trigger of the walkie-talkie and ordered, "All men of Istas Fortress Post 29, report to the Chinook, we are retreating!"

In about a minute, Faulkner was in the pilot seat of the Chinook, starting the two massive blades of the craft. About 20 ISAF guards were also inside, all preparing for evac. I was standing closest to the pilot seat along with Tillings. At each side of the aircraft, there were two windows for gunners. It looked like you could put a wicked big gun there, but now, we had to suffice with our rifles.

I looked outside the window toward the front gate of the camp. The Erusians were getting closer and closer with every second. Tillings came behind me, gazing at the oncoming force likewise.

"Why don't you use that rifle of yours?" he said. "When I tell you to, I want you to shoot those fuel tanks with your grenade launcher. Not too late, not too early."

"Yes, sergeant," I said as I aimed my G3 at the fuel tanks near the front gate. This would be fun.

The Erusians, upon noticing our helicopter, started an all-out sprint to our base. I took a deep breath and prepared for the worst. Why wouldn't this helicopter take off already?

The men were at the gate, I could see their features. They were the same men that were at the earlier battle, and now they were hungry for more.

Finally, the massive chopper lifted off the ground. I was practically hyperventilating in fear as the Erusians used a grenade launcher to blow open the front gate. Tillings sensed-err, heard, my plight and came behind me once again. "Calm down, all you gotta do is pull a trigger once I tell you to. Wait for it…"

The Erusians entered the gate.

"Wait for it…"

The Erusians regrouped at the front of the base, about 20 of them. Our chopper lifted off even more.

"Wait for it!"

One of the Erusians opened a bag he had on his back. Inside was a rocket launcher.

"Not now!"

The Erusian shouldered the rocket launcher as many more entered the front gate. Our chopper was practically airborne.

"Now!"

I pulled the trigger as a large projectile left the barrel of the launcher. A loud _poof_ could be heard from the launcher. And then it struck home, hitting the fuel tank right between the figurative eyes. The explosion was a massive fireball of intense heat and power, sending a couple Erusians soaring and screaming.

Dang, I'm a good shot.

Our helicopter finally managed to clear the barbed wire fence as we soared through the air. I moved up to the front seat to speak to Faulkner.

"Sir, may I ask where we're going?" I said.

"Anywhere but here!" he remarked.


	2. Chapter 2: Retreat

Here's chapter 2, the continued adventures of Sgt. Tillings, Cpt. Faulkner, and of course Pvt. Altman! Enjoy!

 **Chapter Two: Retreat**

 **Soundtrack:** _ **Ace Combat 5: The Unsung War**_ **, "Naval Blockade". Extended version on YouTube by Zaptroxix**

 **Somewhere above Istas Fortress in a CH-47 Chinook**

The massive blades of the Chinook were so loud, I was unable to speak. I spoke, but it sounded like nothing came out as the two engines of the helicopter shouted me out. Faulkner saw my plight and gestured to a headset sitting on the copilot seat. I helped myself and sat down in the comfortable seat, placing the headset on.

"Is it working?" asked Faulkner.

"I think so!" I shouted into the microphone.

"No need to yell, these mics are very sensitive. So, did you need to tell me something?"

"Yes sir. I wanted to ask you about what you said earlier, that you were in the Erusian Air Force?" I asked as Faulkner nodded his head.

"Oh yeah, I figure I probably should've spilled the beans on that one. Yes, back when I lived on the Twinkle Islands, I was a pilot in the FEAF, or Federal Erusian Air Force. It was an odd situation there, the Twinkle Islands were completely independent of Erusea in the government, but the air force there was sort-of loaned to us by Erusea. We were tasked with defending the islands, flying aircraft given to us by the FEAF. We operated independently with them, but cooperated on several missions, and I myself was a test pilot for many Erusian technologies. I was pretty much an Erusian, but not quite. That's when they consulted me about the use of a new power against enemy air units. "

"And that power was?" I asked.

"Stonehenge. It wasn't labeled on the plan, but I could pretty much tell that that was what it was. I think they called it 'anti-aircraft railgun system', I knew of only one railgun system capable of doing that, Stonehenge. What I don't get is how they programmed it to hit ground targets. That's not what it was built to do. Perhaps…"

Faulkner stroked his chin in contemplation. I could tell that he was a smart guy. A couple thoughts went into my head, and I felt that maybe Faulkner should know them. "Captain Faulkner?" I said.

"Hmm?" I was obviously disturbing his intricate system of thought.

"I saw those railgun rounds hit their targets. Well actually, they didn't even hit, they exploded in mid air. Then, the fire just sort've rained down on the targets," I said.

I practically saw a light bulb turn on above his head as he said, "That's it! Stonehenge can be programmed to airburst! It's in its computer system to not explode on contact with the ground to prevent it's use as a weapon, so they just set it to airburst above the target! But of course, in order to do that, you would need an intricate map of the target, or at least a spotter of some sort. Someone with advanced equipment and an access to vantage points."

My thoughts instantly went to thinking of who would possibly be an Erusian spy. And of course, when doubts crept in, I thought of Tillings. He certainly had a shady past, and access to advanced equipment. Heck, those binoculars he gave me seemed to be built for coordinating air strikes.

"I hope you're not thinking of me," said Tillings. He must've put on a headset when I wasn't looking. He was now behind me, each arm resting on the seats in the front of the helicopter.

"To be honest, sergeant, I am. Why on Earth would you have those binoculars? And why are you trying to hide your past?"

Faulkner looked genuinely astonished, afraid that maybe an Erusian spy was about to hijack his aircraft, it appeared as though he was pulling a pistol from a holster.

"Woah, there, slow down hot shot," said Tillings. He had noticed the movement as well. Faulkner stopped the movement and placed his spare hand back on the controls.

"Well, then, tell us the truth!" said Faulkner. Jeez, he got real serious real quick.

Tillings looked at the floor, frowning and thinking of his past. He finally turned his head up, facing us. "Ever heard of the Black Serpent?" he said.

Faulkner, a man of about 40 years, immediately knew. His face turned into a shroud of fear. As for me, I had no idea who this serpent guy was.

"The sniper," said Faulkner.

I interrupted the pity party with a flamboyant, "Wait what? Who now?"

Tillings gazed up at me, his face completely serious. "In the last war, the coup d'etat, there was a famous sniper known as the Black Serpent fighting for the rebels. During the early stages of the war, he claimed over 400 confirmed kills."

"200?" I exclaimed. I didn't know much about war history, but I knew that was an extraordinary amount.

"Yes, 200," continued Tillings. "Anyways, many say that he was the reason that the rebels won in the early stages of the war. His relentless pursuit of high level enemies deep behind their lines made every allied forces member scared in their boots, and it helped. By 1998, the rebels had pushed the allies to the Twinkle Islands."

"I remember that. That's when I got my combat experience," said Faulkner. I had no idea he fought in the Usean Continental War.

"Morale was at an all time low for the allies, much in part of the Black Serpent. Even isolated on an island, I'm sure that many were scared," said Tillings.

Faulkner nodded in agreement. "True that. I was even scared of the Black Serpent."

"And then someone gave the allies a new sense: hope. The rebels sent a squadron of bombers to level the islands, but a pilot rose out of the ashes to save the Allied Forces."

Faulkner and Tillings looked at each other. Even I knew who they were talking about.

"The Phoenix," we all said in unison.

"His extraordinary strength in battle counteracted the fear that the Black Serpent gave; the allied forces now had a reason to fight. And of course, you all know the story; the Allied Forces pushed and eventually conquered all of Usea. During the siege of St. Ark, the Black Serpent was stationed on the rebel headquarters, taking one last stand against the allied forces. It was there that he died, killed by one of the Phoenix's missiles. But before he died, he acknowledged his incoming demise. He sent a letter to the one person he loved. He gave the person his favorite scope and range finding binoculars, along with a message telling him to become a sniper," said Tillings.

I gazed in awe at Tillings. "Wait...so you're gay for the Black Serpent?" I asked.

"Of course not, you idiot! The Black Serpent was my father," said Tillings as he pressed his palm to his face.

I grinned in embarrassment and desperately wanted to change the subject. I finally came up with a good-enough subject, "So, why did your father want you to become a sniper?"

"He talked about the peace. My father was practically a fortune teller, he predicted so many things, including the coup. Anyways, my father surveyed the conflict, it's political tendencies, and its heart. He knew that whatever peace that would be reached would be short lived. I believe he said that Usea was 'on the edge', and that one little push would cause another war. Of course, he never foresaw that the push would be a massive asteroid. And so, my father said that my skills would be necessary. I was 19 at the time, and was planning on joining the rebels as soon as I turned 20. When peace happened, I still studied sniping. I hunted everywhere in Usea, and was actually just about to take a hunting trip to the Anean continent when the asteroid hit. It was then that I realized that war would happen. I immediately enlisted in San Salvacion's army, whose remnants dissolved into ISAF. And well, here I am!" summarized Tillings.

"Well one thing's for sure: you need a promotion and a medal," I said.

"We're going to have to get home first," commented Faulkner.

I raised an eyebrow and asked, "Wait, you never did say where we were going…"

Faulkner cocked his head around, looking at both of us. "Comberth Harbor. That must be where ISAF has moved their HQ to. We may reach an ISAF base before that, but I'll go as far as I can to be sure. It shouldn't be too long."

I sighed at the answer. I couldn't believe that we were at war. And _we were losing_. Stonehenge was to be our demise-well, unless Faulkner tells everyone about it. If the ISAF never found out about it, their air force would be obliterated. With them out of the way, the Erusians would blitzkrieg through all of Usea. These were desperate times.

"So what about you, Altman?" asked Tillings.

"Hmm?" I had no idea what he was talking about.

"I mean, Faulkner and I have revealed our deepest, darkest secrets, I figure it's your turn!"

"Hear, hear!" mocked Faulkner.

"I mean, I don't really have any dark secrets. I'm just an average guy. I lived with my family in the suburbs of Los Canas. I was a freshman in college and planning on staying, even when the war broke out, but then my little brother joined the air force. I wouldn't let him one-up me, so I joined the army. "

A frown formed on Faulkner's face once again as he said, "Do you know where your brother is now?" Please tell me not in Los Canas…"

"Oh, no! He was sent straight to North Point for training. I believe that ISAF has a requirement for pilots to be officers, so he's training to become one. I was kinda hoping to outrank him, but that probably won't be the case," I said as I shrugged.

Faulkner nodded having his fear relieved. "Maybe I'll join him in the skies once we get to Comberth Harbor. I'm sure he's as good a soldier as you. Do you talk much, Altman?" said our pilot.

"Well yeah, we did. I never was a letter writing kind a' person, but we did call from time to time. I haven't spoken to him since the war began, so I have a feeling he's worried sick over me. It seems like everyone at Istas was killed, so I bet he's already mourning!" I mused. It wasn't the best topic to joke about, as Faulkner and Tillings showed nothing more than a spurious grin. A lot of people died. It was pretty dumb of me, as I seemed to end the conversation.

Two hours past as I slept in my comfortable co-pilot seat. I didn't even notice dozing off as the massive helicopter blades must've somehow lulled me to sleep. I woke up to the sounds of frantic radio chatter, realizing that I had left the headset on. Something big was going on, I could see a frustrated frown on Faulkner's face.

"Unidentified aircraft, what are your intentions and what is your callsign?" called some voice over the radio.

"Chariot base, this is Omega Nine, I'm evacuating Istas for the third time!" nearly shouted Faulkner.

"Omega flight does not exist. What are your real intentions?" called back Chariot base.

"They were shot down, _I,_ Captain Tyler Faulkner, commanded their flight! I was shot down too, managed to find a helicopter, and flew my butt to the nearest base, which would be Comberth, you! I have about 30 ISAF soldiers on board, some in need of medical attention!"

There was a long pause on the radio. I finally had a chance to look at where we were, Comberth Harbor. It was quite the city, with several skyscrapers sprawled over the massive harbor. A huge bridge connected the city, forming one leviathan of a city. I could see towering concrete structures in one of the inlets, they must've been the submarine pens. ISAF's fleet was stationed here. One carrier could be seen on the horizon with several escort ships. Now that was a target those Erusians couldn't get with their dumb paratroopers.

"'Omega Nine', this is Chariot base. You have permission to land at pad Lima-Niner. Captain Faulkner, you now have a new individual callsign for future reference, Leopard. ISAF will use it at all times as long as you aren't leading a flight."

Faulkner, or "Leopard" as his new awesome callsign was, waved his hands in the air, finally dropping them on his lap in slight relief. "Finally! Chariot base, this is Leopard. Heading in for a landing."

Faulkner, gripping the controls like an old friend, piloted the aircraft above one of the aforementioned helipads and started lowering the throttle. In about a minute, the massive craft had landed on the pad and was sputtering to a stop. As the blades finally ceased to rotate, we could actually leave.

The men in the back left first, exiting through the ramp in the back, followed by Tillings and I.

I smiled and asked with a lighthearted attitude, "Sergeant, what are we doing now?"

Tillings answered in his San Salvacion accent, "Well, I suppose we'll get reassigned to some other battlefield. I guess our job with the Captain is done."

Speak of the devil, Captain Faulkner came up behind us.

"No you're not. You've got some information about Stonehenge too, and I need you. Follow me, we're going to meet the commander," he said.

Comberth Harbor was frantic. Its recent "promotion" to ISAF's new headquarters had caused quite an increase in movement. On our way into a one-level office-ish complex, I could see dozens of soldiers moving around like worker ants, each having a look of distress on his face.

The building, which was previously just the base of operations for the local squadron, had been repurposed as the head of all of ISAF. Walking in, nearly every person I saw was at least an officer. I felt severely out of place.

Our trio approached a desk placed in a foyer. At it was a flustered lieutenant, shifting through some papers. After creasing his forehead, he finally acknowledged us.

"Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?"

"Hi, how are you. I'd like to see whoever the commander is at this time."

The lieutenant's brow furrowed in confusion. "You mean… the commander of ISAF? You just missed him, he left thirty minutes ago for North Point, the new GHQ."

We exchanged puzzled glances. That was fast. "You mean, they switched the headquarters again?" Asked Tillings.

"Yes. Comberth Harbor was ISAF's headquarters for a total of twenty minutes. It started out at Istas, then to Los Canas, at least until it was invaded."

I stepped up from behind my two superiors. This was serious, and I needed to know what was happening. "Sir, how is Los Canas? My family is there."

"Not too good, but they're sure putting up a fight. Lots of people have died in guerilla warfare, I've heard some civvies are even fighting back as well. I'm sorry."

This was exactly what I needed. My parents could be dead, killed by some crazy Erusian thinking they were a partisan. Or perhaps they were. My dad could get a bit mad when it came to politics, he might even take arms if it came to worse. And it sure did.

Are they even alive? Are they fighting? Have they evacuated?

I hate this war. I hate Erusea, I hate the dumb asteroid, I hate…

Tillings put his hand on my shoulder, turning me to face his worn out face. The creases in his skin showed his years of experience and practice with a rifle, his brown eyes looking like they were staring at something behind my head. His lightly cut brown hair was rustled from the buffets of combat. In this picture, I saw someone who cared for me. I could see that despite the fact that his father may have been a cold-hearted killer, this one had a heart. He valued his men, he did not want a single to die.

"Altman, this is why we're fighting. So that this doesn't happen. If we keep reminiscing on stuff that happened in the past, we can never make a course of action for the future."

I nodded silently in agreement.

Faulkner picked up the conversation again, "Lieutenant, why did the commander leave here?"

"What do you think, the enemy's coming! There's a briefing for the squadron inside this room right now, as a matter of fact. You're a pilot, right? Step in, they may need you in there."

The lieutenant stood up from the desk and started toward the door.

"You two, go to the barracks and report. We can find a job for you," he said.

Faulkner stepped in front of us, meeting the lieutenant nearly face-to-face.

"These men are with me," he said in a cold yet reassuring tone.

The lieutenant looked at Tillings and I, scanning our combat-worn uniforms.

"Um-right then. Pick any seat," he said as he opened the door to the briefing room.

It was quite a simple room, it looked quite like a conference room with several rows of chairs and white plastic tables in front of them. Our trio picked the three closest folding chairs and sat down. All of the room's lights were off, and about twenty pilots were seated looking at the briefer at the front of the room, a lieutenant colonel. He was bald, wearing thin glasses, and was covered in sweat. It seemed the pressure really was on.

He began the briefing by turning on a projector presentation, a map showing the continent of Usea.

My Lord, the Erusians had taken all of central Usea. San Salvacion, Istas Fortress, but one city stood out. It was Los Canas, surrounded by Erusean forces. They sure were giving up a fight. The colonel pressed a clicker in his hand and an animation of fleet and air movements showed themselves, all coming from the Twinkle Islands.

"Pilots, as of 0400 this morning, a massive Erusean fleet has been heading right towards us from the Twinkle Islands. To us, it's known as the Aegir Fleet. To the Erusean sailors, it's the Invincible Fleet. Due to its naval potential, they are invading this port, as it can house every single one of their ships, including the submarines. Their force consists of a battleship, two aircraft carriers, cruisers, destroyers, and submarines. Since ISAF has moved their GHQ to North Point, we have no obligation to protect this port. Despite this, we are going to defend this port. Based on the fact that the Erusean army will be here in a couple of days and we have less than a thousand soldiers, we will be leaving this port, but not before we can afflict the greatest damage possible on the 'Invincible Fleet' as we can.

Gentlemen, the Aegir Fleet is not very far away. They will be here in a matter of hours. We will time the assault so that after you attack the fleet, you will be able to retreat to North Point afterwards. We will have a tanker rendezvous with you so you can make it to Allenfort. Since we need you to conserve fuel and not get shot down, our attack will be one bombing run, we will not be turning around. We will attack quick and deadly in one massive formation. Our targets will be the carriers _Geofon_ and _Cefnfor_. If we eliminate their carriers, future attacks will be much easier. You will receive a more detailed plan later. Dismissed!"

At this command, the entire room stood up, including me. Faulkner, like a hawk yet again, glided to the colonel, shaking his hand.

After about a minute of conversation, the captain gestured for us to come up. As we neared closer, I could start to distinguish their conversation.

"...yes, they killed several Erusians. And here they are! Colonel Abbott, this is Sergeant Tillings and Private Altman. They are the ones that saved my life and brought me through Istas."

As the colonel shook my hand, I could see the experience in it. It was a firm grip that I was not ready for, but thankfully, my voice was confident in my response.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," I said.

"No, it is a pleasure to meet you. It is clear that you two are dedicated to this pilot and the ISAF. Once we get back to North Point, a promotion _will_ be in store."

"Sir, I would like to note that these two eliminated about twenty Erusians parachuting down, I heard them describe it," intruded Faulkner. "Tillings is an exceptional shot, and Altman is already skilled in spotting."

The colonel stroked his chin. "A sniper, eh? Well, if you couldn't tell, I'm in the air forces, so I probably couldn't directly order that, but I have a few connections that could get you in that job. We're desperately low, given the fact that ISAF never really formed a sniper corps. You might constitute the first."

This time Tillings spoke up: "Sir, with all due respect, I am certain there are dozens of men that are better than me. I am fine with my current position."

The colonel stared Tillings in the eye, a flame of sadness in his eyes. "Well, there probably were. But they've joined the Erusians or are dead. This war is not going very as of now. Whatever the Erusians are using to take down our aircraft is devastating. Their blitz tactics have surprised us all. That damn asteroid has killed thousands. Not with the impact, but with the effects on the economy. I would've never seen it coming," he said as he wiped some sweat off his brow.

Faulkner perked up, remembering his purpose. "Sir, you have no idea. I know what the Erusians are using to shoot down the aircraft, and I need to tell headquarters as soon as possible. Stonehenge is the weapon, it is being used by the Erusians to shoot down aircraft just like asteroid fragments. I know how it works, as do these men here. You need to get them out of here, with respect."

The colonel's mouth was agape. "Captain, you need to get to North Point as soon as possible. This could turn the tide of the war."

"With all due respect, sir, I have something else I need to do. I lived on the Twinkle Islands before the war, I know the Aegir Fleet. If I fly with this squadron, we can sink one of their carriers."

The colonel raised his eyebrow. " _One_ of their carriers?"

"Yes sir. They call it the Invincible Fleet for a reason. Their carriers are strong, but can't withstand an entire squadron bombing them. But if you divide the missiles between two carriers, none will sink, and the damage will be easily repaired. I know their movements, and I can sink one of the carriers and get everyone home alive. Sir, you never know when this might help. I can get back, but these two know the gist of it. Get them back as soon as possible."

The colonel stroked his chin once more. "Well, all the ground forces here are moving out on trucks, but this requires an exception. I will be flying in the AWACS on the naval attack, flying to North Point afterwards. There is plenty of space on the craft for two more bodies, and I'm sure you'd love to hear the golden voice of our AWACS."

Faulkner reached out his hand towards the colonel once more, shaking it with a gleam in his eye. "Well sir, we have a deal. Who is the squadron leader?"

"That would be you, Captain. Good luck, your squadron is waiting for you," ordered the colonel to the pilot.

 **Comberth Harbor, in ISAF 72nd Tactical Fighter Wing's AWACS E-767**

"Step aboard, gentlemen," called Lieutenant Colonel Abbott as he gestured toward the retractable steps leading inside the E-767. Tillings and I ascended into the massive aircraft, wondering what was inside the craft.

Surprisingly, it looked just like the office headquarters we were just in. Airmen sat at computers, each wearing a headset and apparently readying their systems. It seemed as organized as the squadron headquarters, with each man respectively at his own station.

"Well don't just stand there, get inside! We have a mission to lead!" called Abbott, who was standing behind us the entire time.

"Sorry sir, I'm just surprised at how...spartan…this looks," answered Tillings.

"Heh, we're the military. We live on a 'spartan' budget. Most of the money for AWACS goes toward the computers. These ones here are top notch. As well as the people in it. Is that right gentlemen?" nearly shouted the colonel.

Several of the airmen at their stations let out an "ay!" at the compliment.

The Lieutenant Colonel led us into the aircraft, moving past the airmen towards the front of the plane. I took several glances at their computers, all filled with numbers and figures that made absolutely no sense to me. I guess it took a lot of training for these guys to do the job.

We were finally near the cockpit as Colonel Abbot gestured to one final aiman at a computer. Except this time, it wasn't an airman.

"Sergeant Tillings, Private Altman, this is Major Cavendish, mission crew commander of this AWACS."

The colonel had pointed at a tall, thin, middle aged man with a receding hairline. He stood up from his seat, beaming an average smile as he said, "It's a pleasure to meet you two. I hear you both got out of the chaos at Istas?"

As we shook hands with the officer, Tillings answered for me once again, saying, "Yes sir. It was a whole lotta trouble, but it was certainly worth it. Are you familiar with Captain Faulkner's information?"

"That I am. This AWACS has flown on several missions against the Erusians, and I've seen the power of whatever that thing is firsthand. I just pray we don't see it today. But if it does come up, we'll be ready. My crew has learned from past mistakes and we can identify the rounds midair. Sadly, all we can do is provide a countdown for the pilots, nothing more."

"Hopefully we won't need it," I interjected. This was met with a couple nods as apparently I was being redundant. An awkward silence ensued as I tried to think of something to say to reconcile myself. Thankfully, one of the pilots stuck his head outside the doorway to the cockpit and mentioned to Major Cavendish, "Sir, we're taking off. Let the units already in the air know to make formation."

The Major put on his headset, preparing to speak to the aircraft that had already taken off ready for the raid.

Colonel Abbot looked back at the two of us and said, "You might want to get a seat. We'll be able to walk around soon, but make sure you aren't in anybody's way."

"Yes sir," said Tillings and I simultaneously.

Major Cavendish was now speaking into his headset: "All airborne units, make combat formation. During the course of this mission, the AWACS unit and I will radio combat information and attempt to support your efforts. My callsign is SkyEye, you will refer to me by this name at all times. Out."

 **Somewhere South of Comberth Harbor**

 _ **Operation: Maelstrom**_

The cockpit was certainly an interesting one. The almost bubble-shaped glass was divided into several sections, with a rectangular shaped one taking its place in the center along with the HUD, which was a simple reflector sight. This was the cockpit of an A-10, one of the few aircraft available at the airfield.

"Aegir Fleet is on the nose," reported SkyEye. The formation of attack aircraft was now in five groups of four, each group behind the next.

"Viper flight, we'll be in range of the fleet's AA systems in about a couple minutes. I know this will be taxing on your flight skills, but dive to the deck, as low as you can get. I've done this once before, and it worked. For one, their fighters won't go that low, they won't dive into their own AA fire. For two, their SAMs and AA guns cannot pivot that low, at least on most of the ships. It's a sort of dead spot," commanded Leopard.

"Dive to the deck? What do you expect us to do, fly through the ocean?" asked one of the pilots in Viper flight.

"Definitely not. Fly as slow as is comfortable. I'm certain you won't get shot down. Just focus on not crashing," answered Leopard.

"Viper flight, this is AWACS SkyEye, _Geofon_ and _Cefnfor_ both haven't launched fighters. Something's going on."

"Perhaps they think this is an Erusian flight? This formation pattern is definitely Erusian, so… nevermind that. Viper flight, dive to the deck. Keep in formation! We're going for the _Cefnfor_ , it's Erusea's pinnacle carrier. _Geofon_ is about forty years old. When you get in range, launch all missiles at once to overwhelm their anti missile systems. Now let's ride."

The flight, all still in tight formation, dove down to the waves, practically creating waves with their engine thrust. A couple seconds later, a rain of hellfire started from the Aegir Fleet, but none of the shots even landed close to any of the aircraft.

Captain Faulkner took a deep breath. He eased back into the back of his seat and stared at the Aegir Fleet wonderingly, ignoring the radio chatter in his headset.

"Leopard, Leopard! Stonehenge is firing!" he finally heard and registered. His eyes widened and realized that battle would not wait for his thoughts.

"Viper flight, retain formation! Don't move an aileron!" shouted Leopard.

"Screw that, I'm not dying with you!" called Viper 7 as his aircraft jolted upwards.

"Viper 7, rejoin us, that's an order!" ordered Leopard.

"20 seconds to estimated impact," said SkyEye.

As Viper 7 wove his way through the AA fire, barely missing several hits, the rest of his flight stayed in formation, not even saying anything.

"Hold formation!" shouted Leopard.

"10 Seconds to impact, 8, 7, 6, 5...all aircraft, prepare for impact!"

The explosions began. The sky lit up once again as the once peaceful skies of Usea were shattered with the tremendous roar of Stonehenge's cannons. But yet, Viper flight remained solid and unwavering. The Erusian ships had even stopped shooting due to the confidence in the superweapon.

"Viper 7 is down," reported SkyEye.

"All aircraft, they can't freakin' hit us! Continue the attack!" shouted Leopard.

"Group one is in range," said SkyEye.

At that moment, the missiles of the A-10s soared off their hardpoints, flying right towards the hull of the _Cefnfor_. Many were shot down by phalanx fire of the carrier, but a couple hit their marks leaving holes in the...hull.

"Three direct hits," said SkyEye.

"Woohoooo!" screamed some of the pilots of group one.

Almost immediately, SkyEye came on once again: "Group two is in range."

The missiles released, many being shot down by fire not just from the _Cefnfor_ but from other escort ships. This time, the ships were learning, shooting down much more missiles.

"One direct hit."

A couple pilots shouted many diverse profanities.

"Group three is in range."

Once again, the missiles launched. But this time, as all fire was focused on the missiles, not a single projectile hit the target.

"Zero hits."

This time not a word could be heard. Sure, the carrier had taken four hits to the hull, but it appeared as though everything was still operational. If the carrier reached Comberth Harbor, the damage could be repaired in a jiffy.

"Final group is in range."

Faulkner looked at his flight stick, the water, and the carrier still floating ahead of him.

"Viper flight, remain in formation." It was at that moment when he dove his aircraft even further, seemingly buzzing the ocean. Nearer and nearer he got, not releasing his missiles even when his group-mates had already done so, each shot out of the sky.

"Zero hits," reported SkyEye as the final group soared above the carrier. "Leopard, what are you doing?"

As Leopard had slowed his aircraft to a trudge, he pulled the safety off the trigger on his flight stick. As he released his missiles, he thumbed the trigger.

"6 direct hits! Leopard, get out of there!"

Faulkner pressed the trigger.

 _Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!_

A hail of 30mm bullets entered the hole in the hull that Faulkner's missiles had just created. The hole widened and expanded.

At the last second Faulkner pulled on the stick and soared above the bridge of _Cefnfor_ as Erusian sailors glared at his aircraft. Many tripped, as their carrier was tipping.

"It's capsizing! Carrier _Cefnfor_ sunk!"' reported SkyEye, releasing a pent up sigh as the goal was achieved.

As viper flight soared out of range, Faulkner took another deep breath. Guess there's no going back now, he thought as cheers were heard all over the radio.

"Where on Earth did we get this guy?" asked a pilot.

 **I have no idea when the next chapter will be out, but thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3: Rest

**Chapter Three: Rest**

 **Soundtrack:** _ **Ace Combat 04: Shattered Skies**_ **, "Echo". Extended version on YouTube by Zaptroxix.**

 **Allenfort Airbase, North Point**

"Welcome to North Point!" shouted Lieutenant Colonel Abbot as we walked down the steps of the E-767 onto the tarmac below.

I craned my neck, gazing at my new location. For the first time, the air did not smell of stress. Sweat was not rolling down the necks of adjutants carrying shuffled papers to their superiors. There was not the familiar sound of shouting voices or the blare of sirens.

But then again, everything was muffled by the sound of jet engines. But as I looked around me, I saw fighters neatly arranged in rows, bombers in hangars, and ground crews performing their tasks just as if it was any other day. For once in the past day, I felt safe. Of course, I was still extremely tired. I hadn't slept since before the Erusians invaded, save for the precious minutes I got in the helicopter and the E-767.

Tillings interrupted my inner complaint with a pat on the back.

"C'mon, Altman. Let's go find Faulkner and congratulate him. Can we do that, sir?"

The bespeckled Colonel beamed thinking about the pilot's success. "Of course! We just sunk a carrier of the Erusian navy! It's still sinking in…"

"Heh!" I laughed as I felt I saw the only person that recognized the unintentional pun.

Major Cavendish stepped off the plane, joining our party. "I'm tagging along, too. I haven't seen a pilot like that in ages."

Thinking of the many years of the AWACS commander's experience, I decided to ask him about his past. "Sir, were you once a pilot?"

"Yes, I was. B-52 driver. Served in the Skully Islands Insurrection as well as the First Usean Continental War. Didn't get to do much, though. The Phoenix took a lot of the glory. But I called him Scarface One."

"Did you ever meet him?" I asked, wanting to know more about a childhood hero of mine.

"Not personally, but he did save my six a couple of times. But most of the time he was just busy on his 'special missions' unlike the rest of us, doing things that hero-types do."

As the former pilot was speaking, a blob of olive drab came from one of the hangars, holding up what looked like Captain Faulkner. Each pilot of viper flight was chanting "Leopard" as their squadron leader was thrown up and down in the air.

Continuing on our previous conversation, Cavendish looked at me and said, "Y'know what they say, fighter pilots make movies but bomber pilots win wars. Looks like you've got yourself a movie star here."

I thought to myself that Faulkner had flown an attacker, but I didn't want to disagree with the major.

After a couple more vaults into the air, Faulkner was put down and patted on the back by viper squadron in probably the first sign of high morale since before the war.

The Erusians still had another carrier and they had taken Comberth, yet my compatriots were cheering the name of a captain, seemingly oblivious to the events of the war. Their families could be dead, their homes destroyed, their nations bulldozed by the onslaught of the Erusian war machine, but in one pilot, hope was found.

It reminded me of the stories of the Phoenix. One pilot can invigorate an entire army. Thoughts then came to me of Faulkner and his future. An intrepid pilot with years of battle experience, a quick reaction time, and nerves of steel. Tillings and I might've just saved the poster boy of this war.

"Easy on the leg!" shouted the captain who was still suffering from injuries from his ejection. I then realized that he'd coped with one of the most taxing days in history with a serious injury. I had almost forgotten it, he hadn't even mentioned it since the fall. I guess he's humble too.

I looked in his face as his wingmates congratulated him and I saw something more than the pilot-savior I'd made him out to be. I looked as his face, almost cringing with the amount of attention it was receiving. But it wasn't an open cringe, it was as if he was trying to look like the hero his wingmen were making him out to be, but failing.

He must be very, very humble.

But then his leg came back to mind.

"Colonel, Captain Faulkner injured his leg this morning and he desperately needs rest…" I said.

"Injure his leg? That completely escaped my mind!" Knock it off, men! Give your 'hero' some space!" shouted the middle-aged Lieutenant Colonel with a booming voice.

As the pilots stepped away from Faulkner, they stepped aside so the Colonel could walk to the captain.

As the former operational commander of Comberth harbor approached Faulkner, he laid his hand on Faulkner's shoulder. "You've proved an invaluable resource the last day. Is there anything I can do for you tonight? After your debriefing, of course."

Faulkner sighed internally remembering he still had to detail his knowledge of Stonehenge, but he took a deep breath and managed to say, "I'd like a warm bed and some ibuprofen, please."

Every man around him, including the lieutenant colonel, laughed. I could go for one of those too.

"I'd be happy to oblige. But let's get you in that bed as soon as possible. Let me talk to the base commander and then we'll start the debriefing. Viper squadron, dismissed. Go report to the flight commander, he wants to meet with you."

As the mob of flight suits left, Abbot left with Faulkner as Tillings, Major Cavendish, and I were left standing on the tarmac.

"Umm...sir?" piped up Tillings.

"Oh, yes, you three! Major, you know what to do, but as for you two, go report to the guard commander. He'll have you suited back into the infantry as soon as…"

Faulkner flinched. "Sir, I was actually wondering if they could come to the debriefing with me. They were firsthand witnesses to the destruction of Istas and were mere meters from the exploding shells of Stonehenge. I think they'll be of great help."

"Very well, you two, come with me. Let's go debunk this Stonehenge thing."

 **Allenfort Airbase, officer's quarters**

"These will do," commented Abbott as he entered a room designated for himself. The quarters were rather nice, they reminded me of the nice dorms that colleges have for juniors and seniors. I'd only been a freshman, but I knew what the upperclassmen had at my university, before the war.

To our left was a room about the size of my old dorm. The entire room was mirrored, just like a model room for university tours. Two beds, two nightstands, two lamps, two dressers, two desks, and two chairs. I wondered who the Lieutenant Colonel's roommate was, since it appeared as though no one had occupied it this far.

In the room right in front of us was a simple kitchen with a table made of cheap wood with four chairs around a simple circular table. In the kitchen was a black refrigerator, a single sink, and many cabinets probably filled with simple bowls, plates, and cups. Above the table was a white ceiling fan with a dimmed light bulb, creating an eerie sense to this simple abode. It was probably caused by the negligence of the former resident.

Past the kitchen was a sort of living room, with two love seats directly facing each other, a single small TV perpendicular to the two. The light was off in that room, so not much could be observed.

Probably thinking of the serious nature of the situation, Colonel Abbott sat down at the table, taking the farthest chair.

"Be seated," he said routinely as we automatically sat down in the wooden chairs.

Though the Lieutenant Colonel used protocol with this statement, it was clear that he wanted us to relax as he slouched back into his chair. "Please, relax. You three have had the longest day in history. No need to sit erect."

My back groaned with agreement as I sagged back in the chair. I may have even let out an audible groan, though I tried to hide it. "So, what do you have to say about Stonehenge itself? I spoke to the base commander here and he is familiar with it as the source of their air dominance, as is Los Canas," probed Abbot.

This was too important to not interrupt. "Los Canas, sir? I thought you said they were overrun by the Erusians?" I asked.

"That's what I thought. They actually repelled the first invasion, but are now surrounded on all sides. They'll be gone in a bit, but they're coordinating one final stand and an all-out assault on Stonehenge. They'll send ISAF's best pilots to take that thing out, then maybe we'll have a chance to relieve them."

I noticed Faulkner shift uneasily in his chair. It was certainly an audacious idea, attacking an anti-air weapon with air forces. He was probably pondering the strategies in his head as we spoke.

The beleaguered Captain was not pondering the strategies, he had already decided them. He knew the secrets of defeat and victory. In his heart a completely different battle was being raged, completely separate from the proposed attack on Stonehenge. It was no ordinary battle, as it was a battle of identity. His actions of the past day flashed before him in a confusing haze. He had absolutely no idea what to say.

"Captain, what do you think? You think the plan will work?" prodded the Lieutenant Colonel.

Faulkner once again shifted in his chair. "I just...don't know. I'm sorry, sir. But the strategy plan the Erusians presented to me spoke nothing of possible weaknesses from aerial attack. The best I can advise is...overwhelming the cannons. Lots of targets are harder to hit than a few ones."

Faulkner had chosen a side, and immediately regretted his decision. It seemed as though he had changed sides at least four times today.

The lieutenant colonel frowned. This was very disappointing. All that trouble just to say what was already known. "Well, thank you so much for trying to deliver this information, I'll make sure to use it with the best of my abilities."

Just then, the door slowly opened as the face of Major Cavendish peeked in. "Am I interrupting anything?" asked the tall figure in the doorway.

Abbott sat up from his former slouched position. "Actually, sir. We were just finishing. Looks like the attack will go on as planned. I'll relay this to Los Canas."

"Very well," began Cavendish, "I've got some information for you two." The major then walked towards us and handed Sergeant Tillings a room key. "Actually, now that I think about it, you three. Faulkner, you will be bunking with Sergeant Tillings and Private Altman temporarily before we get you in proper jobs again. You also have a fourth member that you'll meet there, he just got here."

As Tillings swirled the keys around in his hand, he asked, "Sir, do you have any idea when we'll get our positions?"

The major scratched his head as he answered, "I have no idea, it may be tomorrow. But either way, you'll have several days off to relax before any major work. You three deserve it, you've been through a lot."

"Alright, you three are dismissed," formally stated Abbott, though he was not the superior officer. Their ranks were quite interesting, as Cavendish outranked Abbott, but the fact that Abbott was an operational commander overruled that fact. ISAF ranks always confused me.

As we all stood up, I looked forward to getting into bed and finally catching some shut eye.

All the problems of this war, personal problems, and even my family all faded away at the prospect of sleep. As I followed Major Cavendish down the drab hallway, my knees were already screaming to collapse. I heard the three of them say some small talk, but I didn't necessarily _listen_.

After what seemed like hours but was probably less than two minutes, Cavendish showed us the door of our living quarters. As he opened the door, I saw a different layout than Colonel Abbott's quarters. There was no kitchen, nor a living room. It was simply a bunk room with two bunk beds in it. One of which already had someone on it. Guess that's not mine.

I heard some more small talk and I think I said my name or something, but my eyes fastened on a bed. As Faulkner, Tillings, and the new guy were exchanging introductions, I unconsciously drudged to the bed and collapsed on it.

My last sight was of Captain Faulkner shaking hands with our bunk-mate, the two of them looking fiercely into each other's' eyes.

The last thing I heard was, "Well, I guess that's Altman's bed."

 **In some barracks, somewhere at North Point**

 _(Soundtrack: Ace Combat 04: "The Bird Spread its Wings")_

This was a feeling I hadn't felt in a while. Legitimately waking up on my own, well, sort of. Yesterday I woke up to the ear shattering burst of Stonehenge's rounds exploding above Istas, this morning I awoke to the sound of a guitar lightly being played.

The tune is beautiful, as if something completely out of this world, not affected by it. Scratch that. It feels as though it is in this world, but has learned to ignore what is around it. It is a song of deep emotion, as the player lightly strums a melody.

The last person I heard play the guitar was my brother. He had a rock phase and played chords to his favorite songs, and he was fine. I liked rock and listened to it whenever I could get the chance, but it was never something that struck me as beautiful. It was cool.

The current tune I was hearing was, however, beautiful. I moved my eyes from their former state of looking at the drab wall to look across the room at this wonderful noise. Turning, I saw the figure playing this doleful melody.

It was our other bunk-mate, the one I did not meet last night, sitting on his bottom bunk. He glanced up, pausing his tune to look me in the eye as I shook the remnants of sleep out of my body.

He looked up from his handiwork, showing the same face of experience as Tillings and Faulkner. Though this one was different. This one showed hints of former remorse, wrapped up in confusion, shown as an independence not affected by the events of this world.

His hair was brown, matted, yet short. His cheeks were built and I could see his dimples. It appeared as though he did not like to shave, as a simple five o'clock shadow skimmed his chins to his cheek. He was actually older than Tillings and I, probably a bit younger than Faulkner. His eyes were full of emotion. A man of Belkan origin, by the looks of it.

"Good morning…?" called the figure. I stared at him blankly. Introductions are weird when you first get up from bed. "Oh! I didn't introduce myself. I won't shake your hand, but I'm Private Wheeler, Larry Wheeler."

I stuttered, "Uh...It's nice to meet you, Wheeler. I'm Private Altman, Michael Altman. That's a really nice guitar you got there…"

The private looked at the guitar. "Thank you, Sapin made. You'd be hard pressed to find one of these here in Usea."

I heard a squeak of the door to the bunkroom. Thank God, this was getting awkward.

"Ah, Altman! You're awake!" greeted Sergeant Tillings.

"Good morning, Tillings," I responded, wanting to call him sergeant, but realizing that this was informal. Maybe I should even use first names.

"So, you've met Wheeler and seen his astounding guitar skills?"

"Yeah, I was just commenting on them," I answered.

"If I remember correctly, you were complimenting the _guitar_ , not the _guitarist_ ," interrupted the guitarist.

"Oh, well you're amazing!" I hastily remarked. "My brother used to play guitar but he never played anything like that. Of course, he played electric, not acoustic. But your song was beautiful, much better than how I woke up yesterday."

"Ah, the bombing of Istas?"

"Yeah…" I answered. I didn't like thinking about yesterday.

There were a couple of seconds of silence as there was no logical response to this topic. Thankfully, Tillings knew one. "Oh, Altman! We've got assignment options! And I think you're gonna like em'!" My interests were peaked, this would be my future in the war.

"Go ahead, list them."

"OK. So of course you have the option of remaining in your current position, a standard private in the infantry. You'll be stuck with the grunts… _or_ … you can start advanced training with me and Wheeler!"

I had no idea what advanced training entailed, but from the looks on Wheeler and Tillings, it sounded good. "And that is…?" I prodded.

"Well, it's different for each of us. For me, it's officer candidate school. I'll end up being a second lieutenant by the end of it. For you and Wheeler, it'll mean you'll go straight to staff sergeant after some training. We've all been nominated for this because of 'staying cool under pressure' during the last couple of days in our situations. Oh, that reminds me, Wheeler was defending Los Canas and actually _flew_ a transport home with wounded soldiers on board. He killed a couple of Erusians and was immediately recommended to the Air Force."

Wheeler interrupted Tillings' raving review, saying, "I turned down the air force. Oh, and I only flew the transport because the pilot died. Anyways, the air force gets too much glory and I figured it was high time to try out something different."

"Different? Were you a pilot before?" I asked.

Wheeler looked at me with the same eyes I saw him when I awoke, eyes of strange loneliness. "Yeah. I was in flight school to be a commercial pilot when the military government rose to power. I got out of there as soon as I could. Lost a lot of friends…"

I realized my problem and apologized, "No need to recount your history, Wheeler. I'm sorry you had to go through that, and I'm sorry for bringing it up."

Huh. This guy could've been a pilot in the Belkan Air Force. My uncle was in it, and I thought about bringing him up but I figured that Wheeler had thought enough about the Belkan War. The thought of a nation using nuclear weapons on its own soil scared me, imagine what it did to a resident of the country.

Tillings brought us back to the original point: "So, Altman. What's your choice?"

The answer was clear. "I'll go for advanced training. We might be here a while anyways, might as well spend it preparing ourselves."

Tillings smiled, opening his breast pocket to pull out another slip of paper. I'm glad you said yes, because that means we can share our true job. I grabbed the paper and glanced at its formal look.

TO: PVT. MICHAEL ALTMAN, IF ACCEPTS ADVANCED TRAINING

FROM: INDEPENDENT STATE ALLIED FORCES GENERAL HQ OF SPECIAL SERVICES CORPS, GENERAL WOLFE, NORTH POINT, USEA

CONFIDENTIAL

Private Altman, I heard about your escapade at Istas and a hearty recommendation from Lieutenant Colonel Abbott. He addressed the need for a sniper corps, and I am addressing this concern. We have a sharpshooter corps already, but it is actually rather basic and can be generally understood after a couple months of rigorous training.

Upon evaluating your history in Los Canas, Sgt. Tillings' history in San Salvacion, and Private Wheeler's history in Erusea before the war, it is quite apparent that you three will be very useful in the coming war and inevitable ISAF counterattack, especially in the Special Services Corps, or SSC. Before the war we were actually several intelligence organizations from all around Usea, but with the formation of ISAF we were consolidated into one clandestine organization.

Now, you three will be some of our first recruits for a new branch of the SSC, the S4, or the battlefield branch. Your job will be to destroy, steal, document, and locate the secret weapons of Erusea on the battlefield and behind enemy lines. I cannot tell you what your missions might be, but I can tell you that training will begin tomorrow. Your sergeant has all the information on that.

You may turn down this request, and you will become part of the ISAF standard infantry again, which I highly advise against.

With thankfulness to your actions,

General Albert Wolfe, ISAF Special Services Corps

I put the paper down and looked around me. Tillings and Wheeler with both grinning as I gazed at them with astonishment.

"The _exact_ same face I made!" commented Tillings.

"I wasn't expecting it either, ISAF must be desperate for losers like us," mentioned Wheeler. He was probably right. I wasn't commando material.

"Wait until my pilot brother hears _this_!" I shouted. To which Tillings immediately frowned.

"No way, Altman. Did you not read the darned thing, it's confidential!"

I realized this was the truth, but realized another thing.

I was at North Point. The same station as my brother.

 **Briefing Room, Allenfort Air Base**

"...and welcome a 'visitor' from the Istas Fortress Squadron, Captain Tyler Faulkner. He'll introduce you to some advanced tactics used during the First Usean Continental War and his experience," introduced a buzzed-cut First Lieutenant.

Applause filled the room, though only about ten men were in it, all second lieutenants save for the officer that gave the instruction. Their digital camouflaged uniforms created a unity in the room that Faulkner had not seen in awhile. The past days he had seen men from all branches working together. This time, there was one shade of blue in the uniforms.

He glanced around the room from a podium, seeing the young faces of the graduates sped out of training in order to prepare them for war.

One nameplate caught his eye, belonging to a young man not even 19 from the looks of it. His eyes showed a desire to grow, a desire to be better, a drive to be the best there was. His hair was well combed, his eyes were bright, and he was smiling, probably excited to hear the stories of a pilot. His face was very familiar.

The nameplate read: "Altman".

 **Barracks 2B Lounge, Allenfort Airbase**

Since we had no assignment that day, Tillings, Wheeler and I hung out in the lounge of our barracks, a large room with several couches, coffee tables, and a TV. Other airmen were staying in the same barracks as us, and many of their possessions were in the lounge, including one of the recent gaming consoles.

Wheeler and Tillings both said they never had time for games, but I looked quite favorably on them. I had grown up on the things. In fact, one of my favorite franchise's disc was next to the console, _Banner of Merit: Osean Assault_. It took place during the Second Osean War, in the 40s. This particular game was a recent one, and put you in the shoes of an elite commando stopping an advanced aircraft plan of the enemy. Heh. Looks like I'm as good as video game heroes now, being a commando and all.

I immediately put the disc in, hearing the familiar chime of the console company jingle. As the menu booted up, an impressive musical score sounded out of the speakers.

Tillings was watching with little interest, having nothing else to do. Wheeler was writing something in a notebook. He's one of those dreamy types, I guess.

As I prepared to start the single player campaign, the door of the lounge opened, revealing the sunlight of the late morning. I saw Faulkner enter first, a great big smile on his face. He still walked with a limp, but I'm surprised at how well he looked. And I thought his legs were broken. Sheesh.

"Michael, there's someone I'd like you to meet!" shouted the the pilot. This must be good.

I saw a new face enter, one with an even bigger smile but with the same uniform. Another pilot. This was no ordinary pilot, though.

"Michael?" screamed a voice nearly in tears.

"Zach?" I shouted as I ran to my brother. As we neared each other, I could see that the tears really were genuine as my brother let the waterworks go nuts. He wrapped his arms around me, placing his head on my shoulder as he soiled my uniform with salty tears.

"You've always been a cry-baby, haven't you, little bro…" I jeered.

The waterworks kept coming, now at full capacity. "I thought you were dead, Michael…"

After a couple more minutes of Zach bawling his eyes out, I finally managed to introduce him to my squad mates, the discrete, young Tillings and the older, calm Wheeler. He greeted each with a firm handshake and a smile of respect. He was always a more social person than I was.

Now that I could see my brother, I went to my list of questions that needed answers. The first one was a priority.

"Zach, have you heard from Mom and Dad?"

Zach's smile faded away as I already knew what the answer would be. My smile faded as well. "Yeah...they haven't said anything since the invasion of Los Canas. I...don't know how they're doing."

Both of us were now in low spirits. My parents...could be dead, or worse. If one of them were dead and not the other, life would be a grueling torture to them. As I contemplated the future of my family, Faulkner spoke up.

"The Erusians may have been jerks by invading, but they'll treat civilians with...civility. I have full faith that your parents are alive and kicking."

I looked at Faulkner with my same gaze. "I don't want them to be kicking. I want them to stay out of this conflict."

"Eh. Who knows what this war will bring. We just need to focus on what's happening right now," interjected Tillings. Voice of truth, I guess.

"Sgt. Tillings is right. Michael, I'm really glad to see you. I seriously thought you were dead...there's no telling how relieved I am right now," said my brother.

"I just like seeing a familiar face," I said as Tillings gave me a "I'm standing right here!" look. "And I'm glad that we're at the same base. I'm looking forward to just.."

"Not so fast, bro. Today is actually my last day here…"

"What?" I interrupted as all my plans stuttered to a halt.

"Yeah, I'm being transferred to the _Fort Grace_. Allenfort will be mainly for bombers and transports, whereas I'm going to be flying fighters."

"Aww…" I moaned as I couldn't bear being separated once again from my brother immediately after we just got together.

"But that doesn't matter. What matters is that we have time now to spend together, and you're safe. Speaking of which, do you know what you're doing yet?"

My eyes widened as I knew I didn't really have a decent cover story. Probably should've discussed that with Tillings.

Thankfully, my sergeant was keeping me in mind. "Altman...err...Michael is starting NCO school. He'll slowly be catching up to your grade! But anyways, we'll probably remain in the infantry and fight wherever ISAF moves."

Faulkner piped into the conversation, "That is, _if_ ISAF moves. It'll be up to our Air Force to spearhead that, though. I've got hope in you, Zachary. We'll pull it off and the grunts here can take the rest while _we_ get the glory!"

Everyone laughed at the much needed joke. The pressure was up, and still Faulkner was laughing in the threat's face. Realizing the need for fun, I remembered the console.

"Oh, Zach, look! They've got the new _Banner of Merit_ game here!"

"Sweeeet! You're going down, you know I'm the best at those."

"Just because you screencheat…" I bantered as we all moved to unwind on the console.

 **Thirty minutes later**

Faulkner sat on the couch, reclining as Wheeler fingered his guitar blissfully. In the background, Tillings was watching the two Altmans scream at each other while playing a virtual game.

The pilot couldn't take it anymore. These people around him were his friends, not his enemies. They were probably the only ones he had, and at this very moment he was not on their side. He was lying to them, he was betraying them.

But yet, they were not the only ones he had betrayed. He was a hero to ISAF, and rightfully so. No ordinary pilot avoids the shattered skies of Stonehenge's range and sinks a carrier belonging to an "invincible" fleet.

But his old superiors didn't know that. Nobody knew everything about this except himself. Things were going perfectly fine.

No, of course they're not! No place was safe for him! He could certainly fly East to Yuktobania next time he got an aircraft, but they would gladly coerce him into working for them.

If he was to fight, he would fight on his own will. That was the key. If he left Usea, he would not.

The question is, where was his reason to fight?

He looked at Wheeler, still playing a subtle melancholy tune on his Sapinish guitar.

This guy had the same problem. Faulkner just knew. The eyes, gazing into the abyss of nothingness as the machinations of his mind processed everything, or so it seemed. It looked like Wheeler had it all figured out.

Faulkner did not.

He looked back at his uniform, brandishing ISAF's triple arrowheads. He'll keep thinking about this. Everything will be fine, since no one knows.

Wheeler sat on the couch, strumming a tune he learned from an old friend who was lost in his ideals like he once was.

He had his purpose. Things were still really grey, but he knew that ISAF was fighting a defensive war and had not deserved invasion by the Erusians. Perhaps by the end of this war he would understand the purpose in all of this. There was one thing he did know, that he could save lives in this war. Maybe it would be penitence for the innocence he had slaughtered earlier in his life. He didn't know.

He felt the eyes of a similar man cast upon him and could feel the judging thoughts of someone with the same problem.

After the pilot lowered his head, Wheeler took his own chance to glance at Faulkner. He was a man who struggled with purpose as well. No one would look at his own uniform like that.

Wheeler guessed that this was a uniform struggle of mankind. Though it is much more defined for others, everyone struggles with purpose.

Wheeler would get things sorted out by the end of the war, he was sure of it. Just as long as no one found out.

The two both looked up at each other, gazing each other straight in the eyes, catching each other's thoughts simultaneously.

Each was familiar with the other.

 _It's him…!_ Thought Faulkner.

 _No, it can't be...?!_ Thought Wheeler.

And there you have it, Chapter Three! Sorry to end on a cliffhanger, but you'll just have to read on to see what happens! The next chapter will be a bit of a break, though, but it'll set up some backgrounds for these five men. Hopefully you enjoyed this chapter of _A Shot Above_! Leave a comment, favorite, share it! Whatever you're in the mood for!


	4. Chapter 4: Memoirs

Here we are, chapter four! This one is pretty different, but I have a feeling you'll like it. In it, we go to the past, exploring the stories of the Altman brothers, Grant Tillings, Tyler Faulkner, and of course, Larry Wheeler. Take a gander.

 **Chapter 4: Memoirs**

 **Soundtrack:** _ **Ace Combat Zero: The Belkan War**_ **, "Diapason". Extended version on YouTube by Zaptroxix**

 **July, 1997**

 **Directus, Ustio**

The sun pierced the glass of the simple office, high on the fifth floor of a decently low skyscraper in the middle of Directus. From the large window, an observer could see all over the Ustian capital, viewing the shimmering buildings and prominent church towers standing like memorials to a former time.

An observer sat at a desk in the office, a desk covered with photos of friends, family, and friends that were treated like family. The man at the desk was only twenty four, but his receding hairline hinted otherwise. He wore a plain dress shirt and pants, a seemingly simple attire for a man with a surprising history.

As he looked down on the series of papers on his desk, he thought of that evening two years ago when he was shot down over these same skies, this same portrait of the bright sun breaking through the clouds and creating an orange hue in the sky. He looked down on his papers again. They were part of a novel he had been writing all the way back from his time in the war.

A door opened to the office, revealing a small thirteen-year-old silently peeking into the naturally lit room. The man at the desk had not noticed him, and was thus easily his prey. The boy moved back from the door, glancing at his fifteen-year-old brother next to them. The two then simultaneously nodded at each other. Their plan would work.

With a single, deft movement, the younger boy silently opened the door and tiptoed to the desk, where its tenant was still silently staring out at the city of Directus. As the two neared their target to scare, all of the world around them was silent. You could hear a pin drop.

But the former pilot had a sense of hearing even more acute than that.

"I can hear you two!" called the man sitting at the desk.

"Uncle Rainer…." moaned the two at the same time upon realizing that their plans of frightening the battle hardened ace had been foiled.

Rainer Altman swiveled in his chair to face his two nephews, meeting them with a warm smile and subsequently an even warmer hug.

"Good to see you, Zach! Greeted Rainer as he patted his younger nephew on the back. "And good to see you, Michael," greeted the former pilot as his nephews said their greetings as well. "I know this is something you've probably heard countless times, but you two seriously have grown. It won't be long now and you'll both be heading off to college!"

"Aw, don't remind us of that already, Uncle Rainer!" complained Zach, whereas Michael stood awkwardly at the question. His little brother bumped him in the shoulder, mocking, "At least _I_ have to not think about that!"

Rainer looked at Michael as he shuffled his feet. His future was coming up. "Michael, you don't need to worry about this yet. You don't have to make a college choice _yet_ , and when the decision comes up, I'm sure you'll know what to do. You're a smart kid."

"Thank you, Uncle Rainer, but the college isn't the difficult part. It's what career I'm looking for. I feel like everything seems appealing to me, which doesn't help much in the decision process…" complained the teenager.

Rainer ruffled the hair of Michael, showing a smile of positivity towards the future. "No worries. I didn't know what I would do either when I was your age, and it wasn't until the war that I decided what I wanted to do."

Michael was decently young, but he was pretty good with words and wasn't awkward with Uncle Rainer. His family had stayed with the other Altmans countless times. Rainer was his father's younger brother, and the two were very close. When the Usean Continental War broke out, sending Michael and Zachary to Ustio was the logical choice. After all, Rainer's brother had moved to Usea to avoid war in the first place.

"Well, not all of us can be blessed with a war…" muttered Michael. His future didn't look too positive.

Rainer looked out the window once again, imagining two Su-37s streaking their way across the sunlit sky, not responding to the controversial statement.

It appeared as though Rainer wasn't the only person imagining aircraft. Zachary gazed at the sky as well, contemplating the battles between the Belkan Knights and the infamous Demon Lord.

Rainer had not talked about his history much, as each contemplation bred thoughts about his now deceased best friend. He was not only his squadron commander, but an extremely close confidant. Obert Jager was a brother and a model fighter pilot to the end.

"Uncle Rainer, can you tell us about your time in the war?" asked Zach, contemplating his own possible future in the Air Force.

Rainer looked at a clock on the wall. "Sure thing, I'll tell you guys on our way home. But first, let's go get something to eat."

 **September 7, 1998**

 **Old Towne, San Salvacion**

 **Soundtrack:** _ **Ace Combat: Assault Horizon Legacy**_ **, "Fighter's Honor". Extended version on YouTube by Zaptroxix.**

As crowds huddled by a tiny television set up at a corner table, watching footage from St. Ark, a lone twenty-year-old sat at the bar. Under normal circumstances, he was under the drinking age. But since tensions were high at the climax of the war, the barkeeper didn't mind the young man grabbing a drink. He looked very stressed out.

Grant Tillings sat at the bar, gazing at the live footage from St. Ark. The cameraman panned the camera to the air, focusing on a Su-35 soaring in the air above the rebel capital.

"It's the Phoenix!" shouted the reporter as cheers were heard from the crowd massed around the television.

The aircraft swooped down the main street of St. Ark, soaring toward the rebel HQ, an old legislative building.

Tillings gasped as the firebird picked off each SAM around the building, opening the headquarters for attack from the air.

The son could feel his father on the building. The last letter he wrote to his son, which was remarkably not censored, revealed that the rebels were converting the landmark into a fortress, with snipers like the Serpent on the balcony, anti-tank guns surrounding the premises, and the interior of the governmental complex packed to the brim with ammunition.

A fatal mistake.

As The Phoenix soared for one final attack, he let loose four missiles, each breaching the concrete walls of the building and exploding inside. The explosion from the missiles spread from the exterior into the interior, igniting the ammunition inside.

The Phoenix had created a fireball. The entire building exploded, turning the rotunda at the top into rubble and blowing bits of everything into the air.

His father was on the rotunda.

Grant Tillings looked down, releasing a single tear from his eye and clutching the last letter from his father in his hand.

The crowd around the TV screamed in joy, seeing an image of their enemy finally crumble. The end of the war was nigh.

The barkeep, who was watching the footage with his arm around his wife and his toddler daughter, noticed Tillings crying by the bar.

The barkeeper's faith laid in the Allied Forces, but he recognized the grief of someone who knew people with the rebels. San Salvacion was a city divided on the issue, and most were tolerant of others' allegiances.

The barkeep approached Tillings, putting an arm around his shoulder. "We've all lost somebody, kid," consoled the proprietor of the Sky Kid Cafe, Pub and Restaurant.

"Thank you," answered Tillings.

"Let's just hope we won't let it happen again," advised the barkeeper.

Tillings glanced at the tear-soiled letter. It will happen again.

 **September, 2000**

 **Farbanti, Erusea**

 **Soundtrack: "** **Net-Zone| Ace Combat 7 Fan made OST (Erusea Storm)" on YouTube**

Karl Mecke sat at a simple burgundy swivel chair behind a massive mahogany desk. His hands were mechanically typing at a keypad as characters appeared on his computer monitor. The title of the document he was working on was "Analyzation of Ustian Air Attack on Belkan Anti-ICBM Laser System 'Excalibur'."

It was a work he had been writing for quite a while now. Him being a former Belkan citizen himself, the events of the Belkan War were always an interest to him. Especially since he predicted the war and the use of what he called "superweapons" to change the tide of the war. But that was a life now gone. He had defected to Erusea just before the Belkan invasion, much to the dismay of the Belkan Air Force. The entire country was using his strategies of invasion, but only he recognized that they would fail and fled to the Usean continent.

Now, he was a colonel in the Federal Erusian Air Force. Interesting change.

As he closed a paragraph on the "Demon Lord" that pulled the "Sword of Tauberg", he leaned back in his chair. Honestly, he was just doing this for fun. He had heard that Erusea was giving him a special assignment soon, and was eagerly waiting for it passing time with some writing. He had struggled with meaning for quite some time, maybe fighting for this country would get it.

Someone gently wrapped on his office door with four quick, quiet knocks.

"Come in," answered Mecke.

As a suited figure opened the door, Mecke could see that it was not one person, but three, entering: two guards and one officer. The guards were the suited men, wearing black sunglasses and earpieces, as well as carrying 9mm pistols in their holsters. One of the guards carried a long, black tube slung around his shoulder. The officer...err, Mecke was mistaken. The man bore a military uniform but carried no rank. He certainly wasn't enlisted, that much was sure.

The party entered the room, with one of the guards quietly and deftly closing the door behind him. The "officer" sat down at a folding chair in front of Mecke's desk.

"Good morning, Colonel. I'm sorry to interrupt your work, but I'm here to give you details on your new mission."

Mecke leaned forward, gazing the "officer" in the eyes. The man had black, trimmed hair, thick dimples, and eyes that carried an uneasiness to them. Erusian Intelligence. Those guys were as secretive as they were deadly. The last time Mecke had conferred with them was when he defected, as they provided him background to ease into life in Erusea. They scared him then, they scared him now. Spooks.

Mecke answered quietly, "Sure, go ahead. May I know your name and rank?"

The false officer grinned, furthering Mecke's uneasiness. "You know the answer to that question."

Mecke nodded. Spooks indeed.

The man in front of Mecke gestured to the guard with the tube, instructing him to place it on Mecke's desk. The guard unscrewed the top of the tube and pulled out a large, blue piece of paper. Blueprints.

As the guard rolled the blueprint onto Mecke's desk, weighing it down with his hands, Mecke knew what he was looking at.

The top view showed a large, circular complex with 8 buildings arrayed around it. In the center was another circle.

The buildings arrayed around the circle were not necessarily buildings. They were cannons. It was Stonehenge.

Mecke looked up from the blueprints. "Stonehenge. What about it? I already submitted my analysis of it to command."

The spook put his hands together. "Yes, we know. Using Stonehenge as an anti-air weapon."

Mecke rested his hands on the desk. "So, what do you want from me?" This was getting scary. Perhaps Mecke "knew too much". Geez.

The spook exhaled deeply and put his pointer fingers together, pointing them in the air. "This...is some of the most confidential information in Erusea right now. You are not to tell a soul about this. Not your friends, not your family, not your even your god when you pray at night."

"Good. I don't have any of those," answered Mecke.

"Fair enough. If you tell anyone about this, you know what we'll have to do."

Mecke nodded.

"Erusea is planning on invading San Salvacion and taking Stonehenge from the FCU. If the other nations of Usea retaliate, we will be able to stop their air forces with Stonehenge, thanks to your plans. We have our top engineers working on this."

Mecke leaned back in his chair, taking in a deep breath. This was the second time that a nation had taken his ideas of utilizing "superweapons" to fight air forces.

"Now, according to your stratagem as well as well as our plans, Stonehenge has its weaknesses. It's our job to keep them a secret from any enemy forces. The key to its weaknesses, as you pointed out, lie in the opening stages of a conflict. If we can decimate our enemy's air forces within the first few months of the conflict, air supremacy will be guaranteed."

Mecke nodded. "That's right."

"So, the Erusean Agency for State Security as well as the Erusean Government has decided that the best plan of action is to lead our enemy into a single all-out attack on Stonehenge. If they do not know the weakness, their forces will be annihilated and Erusea will have air supremacy over all of Usea."

Mecke commented, "Sheesh, it sounds like you're planning to take on all of Usea."

The spook chuckled with an air of evil to it. "We would never attempt something so bold."

"So, why are you telling me these things? It sounds like you've got it all planned out."

The spook once again grinned, showing that he knew much more than Mecke ever would. "Because you're part of that plan."

Mecke stood wide-eyed. Getting involved with espionage?

"Well, you certainly look _intrigued_. But know that we absolutely need you for this."

Mecke wasn't sure if that was a threat or not. "Shoot."

"Alright. Your job is to infiltrate the enemy as a pilot from the Twinkle Islands. There, you will hint at knowing things about Stonehenge, but never the entire story. You will make your case believable and advise an all-out attack on Stonehenge. There, you can desert the enemy and come back to us. You'll be flying for them, so deserting should be quite easy."

"The Twinkle Islands? How will they believe I'm not a spy? They're an independent country, right?"

"That's true, but we back their Air Force. In fact, we _are_ their Air Force. All their aircraft as well as economic support comes from us. Sometimes we provide pilots. Sending you wouldn't be very special. When we take over the Twinkle Islands, yes, there will be suspicions. But we'll make sure those suspicions are quelled."

This whole situation astonished Mecke. He would be actively fighting for a side, actively supporting a nation. It was something he never really felt before.

"I'll do it," answered Mecke, though there was still an air of uncertainty to the whole situation.

The spook once again grinned an evil smile. "Good. We will meet you tomorrow and start your training in espionage." The spook gestured to the second guard, who opened his coat and pulled out a stereotypical manilla folder. "Here is your new identity, _Captain Tyler Faulkner_."

 **December 24, 1995**

 **Somewhere in former Belka, now disputed territory**

Christmas Eve. A time for spending time with friends, family, and compatriots. Tomorrow, the holiday would be skipped in favor of a more important operation.

Less than a hundred years ago during the First Osean War, the two sides met each other on Christmas day, exchanging gifts, telling stories of loved ones, and even playing games together. No break from hostilities would happen tomorrow, thought Larry Foulke.

Thinking of the Christmas Truce of the Osean War, Larry once again questioned his purpose in A World with No Boundaries. It was a thought that had crossed his mind a couple times, and thinking of this act of humanity in the midst of supreme devastation took his thoughts even more.

Then, Larry remembered what happened the day after the Christmas Truce. The men went back to their trenches and resumed killing each other, all thanks to a conflict started by borders.

The former-Ustian mercenary looked down at his food, bland MREs confiscated from the Belkans.

He was in the mess hall of a makeshift base in the Waldreich Mountains. It wasn't even named yet, but it had to remain out of view for secrecy. It reminded Foulke of Valais a bit. Snow pattered on the runway just as it did in Ustio, and the only sanctuary was inside.

In the center of the hall was his entertainment, two people surrounded by the enlisted men of the base as well as some of the pilots. In the middle of the horde of AWWNB members was a woman, the only one on the base. She wore a vibrant red dress and a pink flower in her hair. It was an interesting contrast. Her dress itself looked like a rose, embodying her in an essence of nature.

She was a rose herself, and as many new members of AWWNB found out, she carried thorns. She was a heck of a pilot, her thorns being her amazing abilities in combat. They could be tamed by only one, a man in a bright Sapinish uniform sitting on a table, a worn guitar in his hands.

Her name was Marcela Vasquez, but her lover and commander Alberto Lopez called her Macarena. To Foulke's knowledge, it wasn't after the song, it was about a story from Sapinish folklore. But he didn't delve into it too much.

In A World With No Boundaries, all pasts were ejected. Pilots who once were enemies now united under a single cause: eliminating the borders that start wars in the first place. Their pasts were just reminders of the political wars they now hated so much, so they weren't talked about.

Foulke looked back at Vasquez, as she spun around to the music of Lopez, who was strumming a slow, romantic tune. Lopez was an excellent guitar player and even wrote music from time to time. As for a pilot, Foulke found Lopez lacking. He chose to pilot a J35, a decision he made for nostalgia's sake. It was a decision Foulke knew would be fatal.

Cipher would have no pity on him.

As the song came to a close, clapping was heard throughout the crowd, including some from Foulke. It was good to get entertainment at a time like now.

Lopez stood up, his guitar slung around his shoulder. "Gracias, friends. This next song that Macarena and I will be performing is a new one I've written about the moves of our enemies. I was thinking about the Belkan citizens of the Waldreich Mountains...their sorrow caused by political strife of corrupt politicians and generals hundreds of miles away from them. Their lives, now destroyed by nuclear weapons at ground zero, are a testament to why we fight. Here is 'Zero'."

Lopez handed Vasquez a pair of brown castanets, placing them in her hands and looking deep into her eyes.

Foulke could read people pretty well, and he knew why both of these people were here. Lopez was a true fighter pilot and political activist. His passion for the cause was unending, apparent by the fact that he even wrote songs about it. It was well known in AWWNB that Anton Kupchenko was the brains, Joshua Bristow was the voice, and Alberto Lopez was the heart. Larry Foulke was probably the hand that carried out the most important actions. Foulke thought he wasn't as cocky as his former wingmate Cipher, but he knew that his skills as a pilot were unparalleled, even in this international organization of some of the best pilots in the world.

The question was, was he better than Cipher? He'd find out.

Foulke went back to looking at the pair, thinking about Vasquez's motivation. Staring into her eyes, Foulke could tell that it was one thing: love. Her devout love of Lopez was probably the only thing keeping her in AWWNB.

 **Soundtrack: "Ace combat zero Morgan~Zero" by amy3chico3 on YouTube**

The two had started their performance, with Lopez opening with a serious and fast melody, taking a short pause at the end. Once the rest was over, Lopez began the main piece. Emotionally strumming the guitar, it appeared as though he was lost in his passions for the cause, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed.

Vasquez was rotating in a haze of red and yellow, the colors of Espada Squadron. In her hands, she clapped the castanets with Lopez's tune, creating an epic background to the melody.

Foulke thought this would make excellent dogfighting music.

Vasquez's dance reminded Foulke of her flying, an elegant maneuvering twist, her rose-colored dress reminding Larry of her Rafale. Perhaps that is how the two worked so well together in combat. Larry had seen their flying before-twisting together in a dance much like the one before him right now.

Foulke thought of his old partner. Sure, he was definitely not in love with Cipher, but there was a bond between the two. No matter where Pixy went, Cipher was soon to follow. Foulke smiled to himself. The two would meet, become one. Two pilots would enter, one would leave, maybe to death.

Pixy thought of what he might say to Cipher when they met again. The two hadn't talked since he defected. His mind went back to pleasant conversations he had once shared with the Ace, as he began to think of Cipher as a friend.

No! Sure, Larry thought Cipher was his buddy, but the fact that Cipher was standing by the powers that bombed Hoffnung was enough to kill the ace. Pixy could do it. Cipher was aggressive, but Pixy would have an ace up his sleeve, a secret Belkan fighter jet with astounding capabilities. Even the Demon Lord could not stand against Morgana, the Sorceress.

He would vaporize Cipher, either by laser or by the burst missiles loaded in its wings.

Pixy thought of defeating Cipher in battle. It would make him the greatest fighter pilot in the world.

He was getting too far ahead of himself.

Lopez ended the song with an excellent crescendo and a sharp sforzando note, punching the air around the group. Vasquez ended with her hands down at her side, still with the end, simultaneously stopping on the same note as her lover.

A rousing applause erupted from the room, as AWWNB members from all over the Osean continent and beyond. Larry Foulke stood up and gave the pair a standing ovation, a tear running down his cheek.

Yes, he would meet his rival. And it would be one hell of a fight.

 **A Year Later**

 **Los Canas, Usea**

It sure was, thought Larry Foulke as he gazed at the cityscape from his tiny apartment window in downtown Los Canas. Staring at the skyline, he noticed a few fighter jets flying in formation above him, F-5s.

His mind went back to Avalon. Not just his duel with Cipher, but what happened afterward. Each scene played back in his mind with vivid detail. He could draw an exact copy of the ADFX-02's cockpit if he wanted.

No, he thought. Going through the scene again never led anywhere. The secret to his problems lay not in his battle with Cipher, but what happened afterwards.

 **January 1, 1995**

 **Somewhere in the Waldreich Mountains**

 **Soundtrack: "Farruca. Sabicas. 1986" on YouTube by Canal Andalucia Flamenco**

Foulke sat at a humble kitchen table in the center of a small farmhouse. The house he was in was decently large, with two floors and a farm out back. It was the closest thing he could get to. His chair faced a window at the back of the house, overlooking a village below over a snow-crested hill. The endless gray of the Waldreich Mountains stared him in the face, the very land that caused him to defect. The death, the pointlessness, and the lack of emotion.

"Here you are, sir," called a voice behind him. He turned around to face a young woman, her face showing no emotion save for a faint hint of a smile. Her curly, brunette hair flowed down her back and gave her a pleasant feel. She had openly welcomed Larry when she knocked on her door.

She placed a cup of tea down on the table, steam rising and carrying a tasteful aroma to Larry's nose.

"Thank you, ma'am."

The woman stood there, staring at the man in the flight suit. "I can't expect you to tell me everything, but could I ask why you're here? That leg of yours surely didn't happen in an accident," she said.

Larry looked at his feet, both elevated on a chair ahead of him with smarting pain. He had broken both legs in the fall...err...quick landing. Apparently, the Morgan's design didn't have the best parachute. Most Belkans would rather die in battle than eject, he figured.

"My name is Larry. I used to fly for Ustio, that's all I can say."

The woman pulled up a chair next to him, reclining in it. She seemed content and not alarmed at all that a pilot was now in her home, even one who flew for the Allied nations. "Nice to meet you Larry, I'm Amelia."

Foulke took a sip of the tea. _Delicious!_ It reminded him of his old Belkan home, and his parents who had disowned him when he became a mercenary for Ustio. Good times.

"So...you flew for the Allies?" the woman asked.

Foulke perked his eyes up. Great. Now she probably hated him. "I can leave, if you'd like. Just get me a walking stick or…"

"No, no. It's fine. I don't care where you come from. Just about where you're going."

This struck Larry in the heart. "Well, technically I am Belkan."

"No, no, no! I told you that doesn't matter. I just need to know what you're planning to do."

Larry had just told this woman that he had betrayed Belka _for money_ and yet she still cared for him. A fellow sympathizer for AWWNB, maybe.

"Could I ask you a couple questions first, about what you're saying about not caring?" said Larry.

"Go for it."

"Why do you not care? Are you...distrusting borders or something? Do you wish there were none?"

Amelia sighed. "I wish borders weren't here. I wish that all humanity could live together in harmony, and I wish that wars would not happen. But they're here for a bit more. So, we're going to have to deal with them a bit more. But, there is an action that extends beyond borders, is not bound by them, and is the thing that will eventually destroy them."

Larry leaned forward. This is where the chilli meets the cheese, as he always said. This woman seemed to have a deep understanding of the issue. It almost seemed like she had pondered the question more than even he did, or anyone else in AWWNB. Now she was going to tell him the solution to all of his problems.

"Love."

Larry leaned back and sighed. Of course it was love, geez.

"No, no! I'm serious! I know it's simple, but you AWWNB guys are complicating the problem too much!"

Holy crap, she knew what A World with No Boundaries was. This _was_ serious.

"I swear, you guys make no sense," she began. "I've heard of your stuff before, and have _agreed_ with it! Violence only leads to more violence!" Bloodshed is not stopped by shedding more blood!"

That was a line from one of the first pamphlets from AWWNB that Larry had read. He had recited some of it to PJ in the middle of a battle, once.

"And yet, you turned on that idea, didn't you?"

Larry sat silent in his chair.

Amelia exhaled deeply. "I never knew your specific plans, but I know that they were violent. I want you to see the error in that way. Sure, starting from zero would give humanity another chance, but how did you envision to start from zero?"

Larry started to see her point. "Violence. We were planning on nuking all capitals involved with the Belkan War."

"Violence indeed. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, Larry."

Larry stared out the window.

"Listen, Larry. I'll help you get on your feet and send you off, but please, stop the violence. _That's_ what happens when violence is started," said Amelia as she gestured to the gray of the Waldreich Mountains.

Her voice was raised a lot from the quiet, hospitable voice that welcomed Larry into the house.

"I'm sorry, I...didn't mean to get angry. I just...lost my fiance to the nukes and I'm tired of it. I've...got a guest room near the front of the ground floor, I'll help you lie down on the bed and get you something to eat."

Larry stared at this anomaly, a woman grieved by death yet composing herself in love. "Thank you, Amelia. I really appreciate it."

 **1996**

 **Los Canas**

Foulke stood at the window, contemplating Amelia. She had nursed him to health, physically and emotionally. Spending a lot of time with her, she had convinced him that violence was not the option and even opened up an aspect inside of Larry that even he hadn't noticed before, his penchant for poetry.

Larry looked down at a desk, some of his recent work there.

" _Without beginning or end, the ring stretches into the infinite."_

Heh. Honestly, he hated that line. Last night he had a nightmare about his fight with Cipher and wrote it down in a haze. Maybe it would mean something eventually.

There was a knock on his door.

Pixy turned around from his contemplations and walked toward the door, opening it to see a Los Canas postman with a giant box.

"Larry Wheeler?" asked the postman.

"That's me," answered Foulke.

"I've got this package for you from a...Marcela Lopez all the way from Sapin. Do you know 'em?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know her."

"Alrighty, sign here please."

Larry signed a clipboard handed to him by the postman, claiming the package. While signing, the postman scooched the box into his apartment.

"Thank you sir, have a good night!" called the postman as he walked down the hallway to the stairs.

"You too," answered Larry as he reentered his apartment and examined the box. He knew exactly what it was.

After opening the box, Larry felt the furnished wood of a traditional Sapinish guitar, it's front worn by constant use by Alberto Lopez.

Wedged in between the strings was a note written in cursive. Larry was glad it wasn't in Sapinish.

 _Larry,_

 _I see you're using the alias you mentioned before. Wheeler is a good name._

 _When I flew with you, I knew you were still asking questions and that you would seek answers for much of your life. This guitar gave Alberto answers, perhaps it will give you some._

 _-Macarena_

Larry put the note back in the box and lifted up the guitar, resting it on his lap as he sat in a recliner chair in his living room.

It would take a while to learn to play, but Larry had time.

 _Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be back to the usual, the group going through the war. But! How will these pasts intertwine? Will Pixy's identity be revealed? Will Mecke's true intentions be found, his espionage acts against ISAF showing their true colors? Will Altman and Tillings become ISAF's greatest commandos? Will SkyEye still have an amazing voice? Definitely. Read the next chapter to find the answers to the other questions._


End file.
